Fear and Distrust
by TheNarator
Summary: Mordred is in love with Merlin, and doesn't understand why Merlin won't return his feelings. Arthur notices him pining, and is determined not to let his own feelings get in the way of helping his youngest knight. Merdred with hints of Merthur.
1. Mordred Talks to Arthur

"What is wrong with you today?" Arthur demanded, calling Mordred's attention from where it was fixed upon the fire.

"Nothing, my Lord," the knight deflected, turning back to his contemplation of the flames.

"It's something," Arthur insisted, shrugging out of his coat and draping it over a corner of the table separating them. There was no denying that his youngest knight was distracted. It had been clear from the beginning that Mordred preferred to keep to himself. He did not enjoy the things most of the other's did, and his words were few if he spoke at all. He was a private person, Arthur decided, who didn't like to share more of himself than was necessary. Arthur was willing to accept all this, but in recent days it had become worse. His mind was simply not on training, and today he had barely seemed to hear a word spoken to him.

"Tell me, Mordred," Arthur entreated, but Mordred merely glanced at him, hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

"It is nothing, my Lord," he repeated.

"There must be something wrong, you're not such a girl that you must pine in a corner over nothing, are you?" Arthur demanded, trying to goad Mordred into an argument. The same tactic often worked with Merlin when he was being sulky and quiet, a state which troubled Arthur probably more than it should have.

Mordred, however, remained silent.

A thought struck the king. "Is it a woman?" he guessed, edging closer to the fire. "Are you in love?"

Mordred tensed a moment, then turned his head halfway, to look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. "I fear that I am in love, my Lord," he answered softly, and Arthur was about to exclaim in triumph when he continued, "but . . . but not with a woman."

Arthur took a moment to realize the implication, but then nodded knowingly. "I see," he said, striding around the table and pulling a chair next to Mordred's by the fire. "Who is it?"

"It matters little," Mordred sighed.

Arthur frowned. "But you love him, yes?" he pressed.

"More than anything, my Lord," Mordred breathed, closing his eyes and letting a pained, wistful expression cross his face. "There are days I can think of nothing else. When his eyes light on me I feel alone in the world, singled out by his regard, cut off from everything but the fleeting connection between us. To know that those eyes judge me makes me want to be a better man. To know they find me lacking, is like having my heart torn from my chest. I want so badly for him to accept me, but . . ."

"He doesn't return your interest?" the King asked, a little perplexed.

"He does not," Mordred said dully, turning back to the fire.

"Prefers the fairer sex?" Arthur inquired, his voice sympathetic.

Mordred shook his head. "I don't think that's the problem," he sighed.

"Well what is it then?" Arthur laughed slightly, sure he had reached the heart of the matter and he had found a way to help his young knight.

The raven stared into the heart of the flames, thinking. Arthur put out a hand to clasp Mordred's arm, but the younger man flinched at the first touch, drawing into himself in a way that Arthur didn't like at all. He sat back in his chair, watching.

"Why won't he consider you?" Arthur asked, firmer this time.

Mordred hesitated a moment longer. "He won't consider me until he trusts me," he explained carefully, "and no matter what he claims I can tell he doesn't."

"He thinks you untrustworthy?" Arthur demanded, brow furrowed in concern. "You? A knight of Camelot?"

Mordred closed his eyes and smiled weakly. "You make it sound so simple," he sighed.

"It aught to be!" Arthur protested. "I do not bestow the knighthood on men without honor! Is it one of the others? Do the men doubt you?"

"I have been offered no suspicion or contempt by my fellow knights," Mordred assured him.

"Tell me then," Arthur insisted, "tell me who it is that doubts the integrity of my knights."

"He does not doubt the integrity of your men, my Lord," Mordred shook his head, "and I would not bring trouble down on him."

Arthur paused, realizing he'd backed himself into a corner. "What can I do to help you?" he asked, voice gentle once more. He leaned in, trying to catch the raven's eye. "I could speak to him, reassure him your intentions are honorable."

Mordred simply continued to gaze into the fire. "It would do no good, my Lord," he said quietly, "it is you he thinks I am deceiving."

Arthur drew back, surprised. "He thinks so little of me?"

"Oh no, my Lord," Mordred said hurriedly, glancing up from the fire at last, "he holds you in the highest esteem."

"Then let me speak to him for you," Arthur pressed. "You may be entirely wrong about his assumptions. I will know his mind, then pass it on to you."

Mordred dropped the King's gaze. "And still there is . . ." he paused, grasping for the words. "He is close to you. I doubt you would approve."

Arthur reached out his hand and caught Mordred's chin, tilting the startled raven's face toward his own. "Then tell me, and know _my_ mind on the subject."

Mordred's eyes darted all over the King's face, searching for something. "Please," he whispered, "please, swear on your love for her Majesty the Queen that you will think differently of neither of us, or else do not ask me for this, sire."

Arthur dropped his hand, but held Mordred's gaze. "I swear," he said.

Mordred bit his lip, thinking. Arthur stared. For a moment he looked so young.

"Merlin."

"Merlin!?" Arthur laughed, loudly this time, "You must be joking. Come off it Mordred, have you been pulling my leg this whole time?"

"He is the bravest and most loyal man that I know!" Mordred insisted, turning in his chair to fully face this king with shocked, indignant eyes. "He has never left your side, no matter what dangers he must face unarmed and unarmored. He followed you to Ismere even when your men turned back. He would do anything to keep you out of danger, anything to make you happy. He does not move from here to there without he thinks to please you! I-" he paused, as though realizing he had said too much, but it was too late to take the words back now.

"He resents how quickly you and I became close, my Lord. What he does not know is that I am equally envious of the effect you have on him. I . . . I am jealous, my Lord."

This, Arthur realized, was no jest. He would have to take this seriously, or get no confidence from his youngest knight for the foreseeable future. Though it was strange to think of someone being in love with Merlin, of all people, he supposed that it was not impossible. He'd had no idea Merlin even had such an inclination, but Mordred seemed to think otherwise. Then again, there was that incident with the dress.

"I grant you he is brave," Arthur said carefully, "and exceedingly loyal. But, I assure you, there is nothing special about the bond we share. I trust him, yes. He is what you might call a friend, but he does not think nearly so much of me as you suppose."

Mordred shook his head. "Are you really so naive?" he asked.

"He makes up words to insult me!" Arthur protested, louder than he'd meant to.

"Only because he fears you will too soon grow bored with a servant who can only say 'Yes, sire'."

Arthur paused a moment as he tried to digest that piece of information. Did Merlin really think him that fickle? Would he really put himself at risk just to keep Arthur entertained? Was the easy banter between them really the product of fear that the servant would be cast aside? Surely that couldn't be true. Could it?

Arthur shook his head to clear it. This was not the time to be thinking on his own insecurities. "Listen, Mordred," he said, "I will speak to him for you. I will learn his opinions of you, and lay to rest any doubt he may have about your honor or your intentions. If what you say is true he will listen to me."

Mordred hesitated a moment, then - "You would do that for me?"'

Arthur smiled, trying to keep it as bright as he could and not betray the twinge of doubt beginning to creep into his mind. "Of course! After all, Merlin acted as go-between for Guinevere and I in our early days. I see no reason why I should not return the favor, if I can be of help."

Mordred's face broke out into a smile, a gorgeous, sunny smile that made Arthur's gut twist for some unfathomable reason. "Thank you sire!" he said, his voice full of hope and happiness for the first time in weeks, "I - I can't tell you -"

"There's no need," Arthur cut him off, holding up a hand. "I will mend this rift that it seems I helped create. You have my word."

When Mordred left Arthur sank back into his chair, staring at the fire as Mordred had done. The things the younger man had told him whirled through his mind, colliding painfully with things he had been sure were true. He was not sure how he felt about this development; he was not sure how he should feel about this development. Mordred was a good man, this he knew, so what could make Merlin take it into his head that Mordred was untrustworthy? Had what Mordred said about jealousy really been true? Was that really how Merlin thought of him? Arthur Pendragon was a man of his word, he would keep his promise. That didn't mean he didn't go to bed with a heavy heart and a head full of thoughts he wished he didn't have to consider.


	2. Arthur Speaks to Merlin

Arthur Pendragon was not a coward. He had faced every kind of opponent, from monsters to entire armies, and proven his courage time and time again. That didn't make the dryness in his mouth and the fluttering in his stomach any less pathetic as he steeled himself for what he was about to do.

"What is your opinion of Sir Mordred?" Arthur asked, trying to make his voice as casual as possible. He wasn't sure how well he'd done it though, as Merlin visibly stiffened, and paused in sharpening his sword to give him an indecipherable look across the table. Though Merlin tried to hide it there was a flash of something like panic in his eyes, and Arthur could have sworn he heard the whetstone clink ominously against the blade as Merlin's hand shook.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sire," he replied after much too long, fixing his eyes determinedly back on his work.

Arthur winced. The honorific either meant Merlin was angry with him or extremely uncomfortable, and neither was conducive to the conversation he wanted to have.

"Just curious as to what you think of him, that's all," Arthur assured him, in what was meant to be a soothing voice but probably strayed a little too close to nervous, "I do, actually, value your opinion."

Merlin snorted.

"I'm serious!"

Merlin _**laughed.**_

Arthur ground his teeth in frustration, but he knew that losing his temper would do no good.

"Look," Arthur said, trying to keep his voice even, "his situation is rather unique, alright? He's the first Druid ever to become a Knight of Camelot. I need to keep a close eye on him. Even _you_ can't deny that it's obvious he's . . . different."

Merlin hesitated a moment. "Yes," he said at length, "I suppose that he is _different_ from the others."

"Good!" Arthur encouraged. "Different how?"

"You're the one who brought it up!" Merlin shot back defensively, though he didn't look at Arthur. "You said he was _different._ What do _you_ think of him?"

The King knew an opening when he saw one. "He's exceedingly brave," he began, "and loyal. He treats everyone well, no matter their station. He has none of the arrogance you find so offensive in me."

"I don't find it offensive," Merlin interjected lightly, still not looking up from his work. "I just want to make sure that you're aware of it."

"If I want your opinion, _Mer_lin, I'll ask for it," Arthur snapped.

"You just did ask my opinion," Merlin protested.

"Of Mordred!" Arthur shouted, half rising from his chair. When he saw the little half smile playing around Merlin's mouth though he sank back down, realizing he'd been goaded into an argument he didn't want to have at the moment.

"He's quieter than the others," Arthur continued, trying to pick up where he'd left off, "not so prone to reckless or childish antics. He doesn't drink to excess, as some of them do. He's thoughtful, and not afraid to speak his mind."

He paused, grasping at something that would really reach Merlin. "He doesn't _enjoy_ fighting. He doesn't get the same pleasure out of hunting or tournaments that the rest of us do. He's not a violent man. He's . . . merciful. Like you."

Arthur went quiet, watching Merlin closely for a reaction. He hoped that Merlin would catch his meaning, or at least betray something of his thoughts. There was a moment of silence as Arthur's speech settled over the room, the only sound the continued slide of the whetstone over Arthur's sword.

"You think very highly of him," Merlin commented, just as the air between them was beginning to seem too still. He sounded almost . . . disappointed?

Arthur blinked, worrying suddenly that Merlin thought he had been indicating his own interest. "He has all the qualities I value in a knight," he clarified, pushing aside the twinge of offense at the thought that he would betray Guinevere in such a way. "I find him worthy of commendation. And recommendation."

Merlin glanced at him in confusion, but did not let in interrupt his rhythm.

"Put down the bloody sword Merlin!" Arthur snapped, "it's sharp enough!"

Merlin obediently set his work upon the table. "Shall I begin polishing your armor then, sire?" he asked, in obvious attempt to escape.

"No!" Arthur retorted. "I'm trying to talk to you, alright? For all that it may seem unfathomable to you I do actually want your opinion on this."

Merlin stared at him for a moment, a mixture of confusion and concern in his eyes. It made Arthur's gut twist, as though he were deceiving his friend. If he were honest with himself Merlin _was_ his friend; the awkward youth had been with him since he was still an uncrowned Prince, and they had only grown closer as the years had passed. Speaking on behalf of a newcomer to their lives suddenly felt treacherous and dishonest, but Arthur reminded himself that he'd made a promise.

"Mordred is all that you say," Merlin said carefully. "He seems kind enough. His skill in combat is not inconsiderable. He seems a worthy knight."

"What about as a man?" Arthur pressed. "What do you think of _him?"_

Merlin's mouth clamped shut, his eyes taking on an almost hostile quality. "Do you want the truth, sire?" he asked, a note of coldness in his voice.

"Yes!" Arthur insisted, hoping this meant that he was finally getting somewhere. "Tell me what you think, honestly."

"I think you were too hasty in knighting him," Merlin said flatly. "We know almost nothing about him, and he has a history with Morgana. I don't know that he can be trusted."

Arthur gaped at him. Never had he heard Merlin express so open a disapproval of his choices. Usually his servant's tone would be one of dry irritation, or else cautious in it's entreaty that Arthur might reconsider. This blatant condemnation of his decision was wholly unexpected.

Merlin seemed to realize that he'd gone too far. "I'll go and fetch your armor then shall I?" he suggested, turning quickly from the table, head down.

"No!" Arthur cried, wincing as he saw Merlin flinch. "I told you to speak plainly and you did so. There's no need for you to be nervous. You just surprised me, is all."

He frowned in confusion. "Is there a reason for this distrust you seem to have for him?"

Merlin, who had looked up at Arthur's apology, dropped his eyes to the floor again. "No, sire," he said quietly.

Arthur wanted to scream. "I won't have this Merlin," he insisted, "you're lying and I want the truth. Now out with it. Why don't you trust Sir Mordred?"

For a moment Merlin held his gaze, eyes clouded with fear and indecision. His teeth began to worry at his full bottom lip, making it even more puffy and pink than normal. Arthur was struck by a sudden fascination with that lip. The way it stuck out. The way it darkened in color as it was nibbled. How soft it looked. In fact he might have let the matter drop, just staring at Merlin's mouth, if the man himself had not spoken up again.

"It is a matter of . . . personal nature, sire," Merlin told him quietly. "It is complicated."

"By all means, sit down and explain it to me," Arthur said, indicating the chair opposite his own.

"It is not a matter of a long explanation," Merlin replied desperately. "It involves things which are . . . delicate."

"What do you _mean?"_ Arthur demanded, searching Merlin's face for some clue, but finding nothing but more pain and worry. He was beginning to think that he was drawing close to something that Merlin had been keeping from him for a long time.

"Why won't you trust me Merlin?" he asked. "You act as though you're _afraid_ of me. What have I done to make you think I could ever hurt you?"

Merlin swallowed. "You don't trust me with every little detail of your life," he pointed out, "some things are just-"

"You _share_ every detail of my life!" Arthur protested. "You know everything about me Merlin. You were _there_ for most of it. I trust you with everything."

"Some things aren't as simple as trust," Merlin said softly, looking down, "and trust isn't defined by how much you care for someone. I care for you Arthur, but that doesn't mean . . . that isn't -"

"Enough?" Arthur choked, his throat suddenly blocked by a lump he hadn't felt forming. Merlin flinched, a look of shock flitted across his face before his expression returned to one of desperation.

"What could be so bad you couldn't tell me?" Arthur insisted, trying to hold Merlin's gaze, trying to let his sincerity show in his eyes.

Merlin's eyes were shining with unshed tears now. Arthur realized he'd asked too much, pushed Merlin too far, but he had to _know._ Whatever this was Merlin had been hiding it for too long, and Arthur felt his desperation to clear the air peek as Merlin closed his eyes in exhaustion and bowed his head again. It was obviously causing Merlin pain, having to keep whatever it was a secret, and Arthur felt . . . hurt. It hurt him that Merlin didn't think he could trust him.

He had to wonder, if Merlin didn't trust him, who did he trust?

"He loves you, you know," Arthur pleaded. "Mordred? He's sick with it. Absolutely besotted. He can't take this inexplicable suspicion of yours Merlin, it's tearing him apart." _It's tearing _**_me_**_ apart._

"So, what?" Merlin spat, looking back at Arthur with eyes suddenly furious, and Arthur almost jumped. "Just because he _thinks_ he's in love with me I'm obliged to return his attentions? I must revise my opinions for the sake of his infatuation? Why? Because he is a knight and I am a servant? For this I am required to give myself to him, regardless of my own preferences?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying at all!" Arthur stumbled, completely floored for the second time during their conversation. "I just want you to give him a chance."

Merlin was blinking back his tears now, voice full of venom. "With all due respect, _**sire,**_ I don't owe him a chance. I don't owe him anything. Did it ever occur to you that there might be someone else for me?"

"Is there?" Arthur asked, his blood going cold.

"That's not the point!" Merlin shouted, hands flying up to tug at his hair in frustration.

"Is there, though?" The idea shocked him, but not nearly as much as the twist in his stomach when he considered that Merlin might already have a lover he didn't know about.

"No!" Merlin howled, voice breaking in anger. "And there doesn't need to be! I don't need a lover to use as a shield against Mordred! I am perfectly capable of deciding for myself who I take to my bed, and you, _**my Lord**_, have absolutely no say in the matter!"

And with that Merlin stormed out of the King's chambers, leaving Arthur feeling more wretched than he'd felt in a long time.

**Author's Note:** I was going to pretend that this story could end anywhere, so it was at any given time complete, but that's not really going to work is it? The next chapter will be "Merlin and Mordred Have it Out." When I get around to it.


	3. Merlin and Mordred Have It Out

"Emrys?"

Mordred winced. He had not meant for it to sound so desperate. He'd returned to his chambers for the evening to find the older warlock gazing out the window, his back to the door.

"Mordred," he replied softly, turning his head to the side but not quite looking at him.

Mordred's fingers trembled as he raised them to undo the clasp of his cape, fumbling and making the metal clink. Emrys turned suddenly and crossed the room to where Mordred stood frozen, eyes devoid of any recognizable emotion. He brushed Mordred's hands aside and deftly undid the clasp himself, then drew the knight over to the table near the middle of the room and silently helped him out of his chain mail.

When Mordred stood in his shirt and breeches he hesitated, waiting for Emrys to speak. He received only silence, the older wizard staring at the mess of metal on the table with glassy eyes. Mordred's heart was in his throat, full to bursting with a confusing mix of emotions; discomfort at the awkward silence, fear that something was wrong, hope for what might be the reason for this. His fascination with Emrys had grown into something that could not be borne, but he was terrified of what this visit might mean. Mordred searched his face, looking for any sign of his purpose, but there was nothing. He looked a thousand miles away.

Mordred had no wish to drive Emrys from his presence, but surely his heart would pound it's way out of his chest if he waited much longer. "Emrys?" he repeated, tentative, hopeful.

Emrys looked up, meeting his eye for the first time, and suddenly Mordred was struck by the sadness in the older wizard's face. He looked as though he were suffering some terrible pain. Mordred longed to embrace him, to hold him, safe and away from whatever was hurting him.

"You need to stop trying to get close to me," Emrys breathed. His voice was soft despite the condemning finality of his tone. "You and I cannot be friends."

"What?" Mordred gasped before he could stop himself. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter why," Emrys said flatly. "I don't need a reason."

"Is this about the King?" Mordred asked, the words pouring out of him before he could consider their meaning, "Did he speak to you? What did he-"

"It's not about that," Emrys told him.

Mordred felt like dying. For all he knew he might well be dying, for how much pain he was in. The man who stood before him was so different from anything else he knew of Emrys. Averting his eyes, his mind filled with images of a cheerful face with an easy smile and kind eyes, the sound of ringing laughter, talking and joking with the King and the knights. He thought of the tender touches that he saw, a hug, a clap on the arm, the dressing of a wound, and how he had imagined those touches might feel on his own skin. He remembered the books and scrolls he'd read, the stories he'd heard, describing the most powerful sorcerer to ever be. Legend among Druids, hero among sorcerers, worshiped idol and benevolent god that walked the earth, whose wisdom would enduring throughout the ages.

"In everything I've heard about you," Mordred choked out, voice trembling, "everything I've read." He squeezed his eyes shut, desperate to hold in the tears that threatened to betray him. "You were supposed to be _kind."_

Emry's face hardened. "I'm sorry to disappoint you," he hissed, "but I'm not some legend you learned about from a book. I'm human."

"But you're not!" Mordred argued, staring at him intently, marveling at how a man who could command all the powers of heaven and earth could consider himself merely human. "You're so much more than that. I've seen it! You _are _kind-" Mordred faltered, trying to link one thought with another. "You are, just not to me. Why not to me? What great wrong have I done you? Why do you hate me so?"

Mordred gulped down air, blinking back tears. He hardly expected an answer, despite how desperate he was to have one. He feared that Emrys would leave him alone with his tears and his hopeless infatuation. Instead the older wizard spoke, after a few moment's pained silence, voice as weak as Mordred felt.

"I don't -" he choked, not looking up, "I don't hate you. I wish I could, but I can't. Not really."

"What have I done?" Mordred begged. The assurance that his beloved harbored no hatred for him made his head spin. Suddenly he was dizzy with hope. If he could only put a name to this crime, this sin for which he was being punished, then he could atone, placate the angry god Emrys had become and return him to his former state of benevolence.

For a few more moments Emrys did not speak, gaze still lowered. Then suddenly he raised his head to look Mordred in the eye, face set as though he were steeling himself.

"Nothing," he said, and Mordred's blood went cold. "You've done nothing wrong, which is why this is so unfair. As unfair to you as it is to me. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" he pressed, "what's unfair, what are you hiding?" He felt helpless, felt his desperation rising at his inability to get through to the older warlock. "Why won't you trust me?"

"I can't," Emrys breathed, closing his eyes a moment as though in exhaustion. "Don't you understand I can't?"

"If you can't trust me, one of your own people, then who can you trust?" Mordred demanded. He could see the shutters close behind Emrys's eyes, feel his defenses going up as Mordred asked too much. It made him want to tear at his hair, want to throw things, at the same time it made him want to draw Ermys close and never let go. He wanted to set his magic free, let it roar out of him and shatter everything that would break, wrap the hurting wizard in a protective embrace.

"I can't put my trust in you Mordred," Emrys held, "I want to, but I can't. I've made mistakes in the past, and I won't repeat them. You wouldn't understand."

The use of his name sent shivers down his spine, just as it had on the first day he and Emrys had been reunited, but the words made his eyes prickle with fresh tears and his heart clench with frustrated longing.

"I am the only one who stands a chance of understanding you," Mordred wheedled. He took a step closer, and then another, forcing Emrys to back up against the table to maintain the distance between them. "Why won't you let me in? Why won't you let me _help_ you?"

"You don't know what you're asking," Emrys gritted out, shaking his head, eyes pressed closed as though fighting an impulse.

"I know more about you than anyone. Yet still, you hide from me." He reached out a hand to brush aside a piece of the elder raven's hair, fingers lingering at his temple. "You've been hiding for so long, Emrys. Do you even know how to trust anymore?"

"I trust people," he said reflexively.

"You trust no one," Mordred insisted, trying to make Emrys understand, trying to make him _see._ "You claim to trust people, but you're always holding back. There is no one in this castle from whom you have no secrets."

"Secrets are who I am," Emrys replied firmly, meeting Mordred's eye with a hard look more tired than angry. "I'm a sorcerer in Camelot, secrets are how I survive. You of all people should know."

"But I do know!" The hand moved to cup his cheek, and Mordred thrilled that he did not immediately pull away. "I know what you've been though. I know what it's like. You don't need to protect yourself from me. We can protect each other!"

"You claim to understand the need for secrets, yet because of that understanding you want me to reveal mine," Emrys spat bitterly, jerking away from Mordred's touch. "You make no sense."

"You're the one who makes no sense!" Mordred shouted, frustration and despair winning out at last. "You treat me differently than the others, and yet you refuse to provide evidence that I am any different from them! I am the one person in all this castle you should be able to trust, and yet I have only your suspicion! Your loneliness threatens to consume you for want of _someone_ to understand you, and yet _still_ you refuse me!"

"What would you have me do?" Emrys cried, voice breaking even as it rose in anger. "I can't trust you and I can't tell you why! What do you want me to do?!"

Mordred acted on instinct. He did not let himself consider what he was doing, only telling himself that he was giving the answer Emrys demanded. He refused to think of the consequences, simply gave in to the craving that had been gnawing at him for months. Mordred surged forward, seized the front of Emrys' shirt and pulled him into a desperate kiss.

It was more a battle than an expression of love, a fierce clash of lips and tongue and teeth and Mordred _ached_ with it. They were biting at each other's lips, panting against each other's mouths, bodies pressed flush together against the table. Emrys' hand clenched in his hair, though whether to pull Mordred away and bring him closer he wasn't sure. He'd kissed before, men and women, but it was nothing, _nothing_ like this. The solid line of Emrys' body, the raw power of his magic pulsing under his skin, the way he forced his tongue between Mordred's lips to plunder his mouth with a ferocity he'd never experienced before. He tasted of berries, and honey, and _magic,_ magic so pure and so strong and so _warm_ the Mordred wanted to devour it, to drown in it. He would gladly have suffocated under Emrys' kiss, but it was over all too soon and he was being pushed away and that solid pulsating warmth was gone, leaving him cold and miserable and bereft.

Emrys was leaning against the table, breath coming in ragged gasps, eyes full of fire and hunger and pain. He touched his own bruised lips with trembling fingers, and as Mordred watched his expression went from confusion to despair.

"Please," Mordred sobbed, reaching for him again, trying to pull his beloved, his _god,_ into his arms, but Emrys' eyes flashed gold and a sudden burst of magic slid him back several feet across the floor, sending him stumbling into a wall.

"Don't ever do that again," Emrys hissed furiously, and to Mordred's horror and despair he turned on his heel and fled the room.


	4. Gwaine Comforts Mordred

The sick thing about it all was that life didn't stop. Despite the fact that his conversation with Emrys _(Merlin,_ he corrected himself) had left him broken and confused, he'd still had to force himself to sleep that night and up the next morning, for breakfast and training and patrol and the _life_ that continued regardless of the pain he was in.

Luckily, despite how blind they were to all the rather obvious magic that went on in Camelot, the other knights were not so oblivious to the suffering of their comrades.

"It's always about the Princess with Merlin, isn't it?" Gwaine remarked, quite out of the blue one afternoon as they were getting out of their armor and chain mail in the armory. Mordred stared at him, but Gwaine simply continued with his task, not even looking at the younger knight as he spoke in a deliberately casual voice.

"Arthur this, Arthur that, Arthur's in trouble we must go rescue him, Arthur's done something stupid so we must go fix it.

Gwaine heaved his mail shirt over his head and stretched. "Honestly, if it wasn't for Merlin I don't think Arthur would have made it half as far as he has."

Mordred hesitated a moment, trying to pick out the direction Gwaine was taking this. "The King is certainly an important part of Merlin's life," Mordred settled on at last, not sure whether he was agreeing or disagreeing with Gwaine's point.

Gwaine, however, simply laughed. "That's the greatest understatement I've ever heard sober," he remarked. "But really, it's not just that Arthur's a part of Merlin's life. The Princess is his whole world."

"Indeed," said Mordred, trying to hide the bitterness in his voice. He failed miserably, if the knowing look Gwaine gave him was any indication.

"It's a good thing too though," the older knight continued as Mordred freed himself from the last of his chain mail. "Merlin's the one who got Arthur this far. He's more than Arthur gives him credit for. He's the reason Arthur's still here."

Mordred's brow furrowed, staring at Gwaine as he tried to catch his meaning. Gwaine looked nonchalantly off to the side. "He's why I'm here, at any rate."

The younger knight blinked, trying to process what he'd just heard. "You mean - you?" he began uncertainly.

Gwaine snorted, and Mordred was surprised to hear a note of bitterness in his voice as well. "I don't have any illusions about it," he sighed, "I know nothing's ever going to come of it. Like I said, it's all about the Princess." He laughed, a tired, resigned laugh that made Mordred's heart clench. "I just wanted to be near him, I suppose."

Mordred swallowed. "I can understand that," he agreed, voice soft and small.

"I'll bet," Gwaine sniggered, then laughed aloud at Mordred's scandalized look. "I do have eyes you know," he reminded the younger knight, "and so do you, interestingly enough. I can see where they go, and who they linger on."

Mordred blushed, hard, and Gwaine gave him a wan smile. "Hurts, doesn't it?"

The raven nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat and failing miserably. Gwaine held his gaze, and a moment passed in silence as Mordred tried to decide if Gwaine's expression was pitying or not. He blinked several times, fighting to control the moistening of his eyes.

"Was he always like this?" Mordred's voice sounded raspier than he would have intended, but stronger than he would have hoped.

Gwaine gave him another sad little smile. "As long as I've known him," he confirmed. "I don't know any more than these five years past, but I remember him as being . . . devoted, even then."

Gwaine looked at the ceiling. "He made Arthur's excuses to me," he said, voice far away, "even while we were sitting under a mountain of work he was banging on about how Arthur was different from the others, Arthur was decent and kind and noble. Really noble, the old meaning of the word. Before these upper-class twits got to it."

He laughed, with more bitterness than Mordred had ever heard the generally good-natured knight put into anything.

"You disagree?" he asked cautiously, and when Gwaine didn't answer him he pressed on. "You don't think Arthur's noble?"

Gwaine twisted his mouth, not in irritation or disgust but rather a comical imitation of contemplative. Then his face settled again and he met Mordred's eye. "I'm here because Merlin's my friend," he said, "and he believes in Arthur. Whatever it is he sees in the King, he made me see it to, if only for a while."

Mordred stared at him, and Gwaine met his gaze unashamedly. "And you?" he asked.

Mordred opened his mouth to reply, but the words stuck in his throat. There was nobility in Arthur. He had seen it in Ismere, in the way he extended a hand of friendship to Morgana even as her dagger pierced his flesh. He had seen Arthur's goodness, his _rightness,_ in that moment . . . but never again since. He thought of the dismissive words he'd overheard, the insults and the disregarded warnings. He thought of Merlin, his talk of peace and freedom and uniting Albion. He thought of the light in his eyes, and how it would go out when they lingered on Arthur too long.

"I don't know," he admitted in a small voice.

Gwaine looked around the small room, dark and cluttered with racks of shields and armor and weapons, as though he were looking at all of Camelot, represented by these walls.

"This place is a honey-trap," he said. There was a lightness to his tone, though it did not overshadow the words. "It looks so different from the outside. It looks bright, like a beacon, but it's full of ghosts."

Mordred understood that he was not just talking about Camelot.

"Why do you stay, then?" he asked, trying to keep the longing for an answer out of his voice.

Gwaine shrugged. "It's better than leaving," he said, "not like I have anywhere else to go." He looked at the ceiling again, face blank. "It's probably not good for me, living on this vain hope, but there's that oath of fealty to consider, and I suppose I've yet to meet a _better_ King than ours."

Mordred nodded his understanding. A quick flash of a memory came to him, Morgana's eyes stretched so wide in mad, sadistic joy he could see the whites from across the long table, and he shuddered. Gwaine gave him a knowing look, some similar experience reflected behind his eyes.

Gwaine shifted, standing to face Mordred more squarely. He looked Mordred dead in the eye, with determination and pity and something almost like envy.

"You have a chance though," he whispered, and Mordred's heart leaped. "You get to him."

"I don't," Mordred said reflexively, but Gwaine shook his head quickly.

"You do," he said, "I can see it in his eyes. He sees you more than he does me, and you're _here,_ loyal, not going anywhere. He doesn't need to look at you but he does. You reach him, in whatever way you do."

Gwaine's eyes narrowed, and there it was, that envy, that knowledge that Mordred had something he did not, even if he didn't properly understand it.

"Don't waste it, yeah?" he asked, a hairline crack showing in his composure. Two steps forward brought him into Mordred's personal space, and he caught Mordred's shoulders in a grip that was firm but not unkind. "Just remember, Arthur is the most important thing," he said, his turn to blink to keep his eyes dry. "The only important thing."

He tilted his head down, his eyes filling Mordred's vision, and Mordred could see the pain in them that he hid almost as well as the object of his affection, the swirl of sorrow, longing, envy, pity, greed, and his knees nearly buckled at the mix of fear and hope it awakened in his chest.

"For now." Gwaine finished.

Mordred nodded.

**Author's Note:** Bit shorter than my other chapters, sorry about that. Bit darker too, but this season is dark and I'm in a dark mood and SOMEONE TELL ME THIS SEASON IS GOING TO END HAPPY! *sniff*


	5. Kilgharrah Has Something to Say

Merlin couldn't sleep. Then again, this wasn't so unusual. He hadn't been sleeping a great deal lately. In fact these days he rarely slept at all. Whenever he closed his eyes the only thing he could see was the barren, scorched battlefield beneath the red sky, Arthur falling to the ground, limp and lifeless beneath Mordred's cold gaze.

Merlin had developed something of an aversion to closing his eyes.

He read his book of spells, most nights. He could let his eyes slide over the pages, comforted vaguely by the familiar pattern of words he had memorized long ago. Eventually, an hour or two before dawn, he would exhaust himself from looking at them, and in this way managed to get a small amount of rest before the day began.

Tonight, however, not even the spell book provided solace. Merlin had long since thrown it into a corner, and was now pacing agitatedly round and round his tiny room. His magic writhed just beneath his skin, pounding in his ears like blood, itching for something to do. He gnawed on his thumbnail, eyes sliding from the window to the door to the book in the corner to his unmade bed, as though one of them would come magically to life and begin offering advice on what to do about Mordred.

He knew what a dangerous path it was to start blaming people for things they hadn't done yet. That had been Uther's path, had led to oppression and genocide and years of blood and pain. Then again, he also knew what a dangerous path it was to go against destiny. Destiny decreed that Mordred was to kill Arthur, and that Merlin was to protect him. Therefore, Merlin and Mordred were enemies. He though of all the times he had tried to go against fate. Freya, who he'd been willing to leave Camelot for, who had died in his arms. Will, who he'd dared to love more than Arthur, and their village which he had put himself at risk to protect, who had died begging Merlin not to heal him. Balinor, who'd filled him with indignant rage and would surely have challenged Uther, who had protected his son at the cost of his own life.

Morgana, who had been his friend, who he had refused to believe would ever betray them. Who he had been made to watch go so mad and so dark there was nothing left of the woman she had once been.

He didn't want to _think_ about what punishment fate would have for trusting Mordred.

Every time he saw the young Druid looking at him with those pleading eyes he wanted to grab him and shake him, screaming _**No,**_ _**I can't let you get close to me, don't you know what the consequences will be?**_

The door, finally, presented itself as the best option.

The night air felt cool as a cleansing like spring rain. He wished it was raining, something to wash away the fire beneath his skin. It was getting worse. Every time he thought of Mordred it got worse. The little brat was just so bloody _earnest._ If only he'd been sinister, or indifferent, or even a haughty, arrogant prat like Arthur, this would have been easier. It would be easier to fear him, easier to hate him, easier to do what had to be done to protect the King. But no, he had to be bright and friendly and eager to please, eager to please _Merlin._ He had to glance at Merlin for approval every five minutes, had to try over and over again to earn his trust, had to look at him with his eyes so hopeless and wanting and . . .

_Lovestruck._

It was the only word, and it made Merlin's heart ache. Mordred just _had_ to be _in love with him._

And, more disturbing than anything, knowing it _had_ to get under Merlin's skin.

Merlin hadn't really been paying attention to where he was walking, so he was surprised to suddenly find himself a rather large distance away from the castle, in the clearing where he usually summoned Kilgharrah to talk to him. He glanced around, thinking. Gaius's advice, as it usually was, had been supremely unhelpful without a specific question. He _needed_ someone to talk to, couldn't do this by himself. No one was around.

He opened his mouth, but as usually he didn't know if the words would come until he was already speaking them. The ancient roar, like the shifting of a mountain, came from a place deep in his chest, a sound as solid as the earth he stood on. When the command was just an echo in the air he felt suddenly smaller, like he'd issued a boast he couldn't prove, but he felt some of the weight on his chest lifting as he heard the rushing of wind beneath a pair of great wings.

"Why have you called me, Young Warlock?" asked the dragon, almost conversationally, once he was settled on the ground with his wings folded against his back.

Merlin bit his lip, wondering how to phrase his question. "I need you to tell me all that the prophesy says about Mordred."

Kilgharrah blinked at him, tilting his enormous head to the side as though confused. "I should have thought you knew everything you needed to know," he replied simply, tone deceptively light.

Merlin shook his head. "I need to know more," he insisted, "anything you can tell me. Mordred . . . he's not like you said. He's different from the things I've been told, the things I've been shown."

"You of all people should know that appearances can be deceiving," Kilgharrah reminded him. "Just because he seems to deviate from your expectations does not mean that it is true," his orange eyes narrowed, "or that it will last."

"I know that," Merlin assured him, looking between the dragon and the ground, "I do, really. I just . . . he's so bloody _nice_ to me, and-"

"Kindness is not necessarily indicative of goodness Merlin," Kilgharrah cut him off. "Any fool can use honey to catch flies."

"I don't think it's a trick though," Merlin protested, "I think he really is loyal to Arthur, and to me. He sees me as 'Emrys,' this . . . this legend among the Druids. I can't see him as thinking I'm his enemy."

"Recall my words when you asked me about the witch Morgana," the dragon countered, louder and firmer than before. "Recall that you gave these same reasons to doubt the prophesy, and now all of Camelot is _still_ paying the price for your hesitation."

Merlin looked at the ground, guilt crawling up his spine. He'd had more than a few chances to kill Morgana, both before and after she had abandoned Camelot for Morgause, but he'd passed them all up for the sake of Arthur's feelings and the friendship they had once shared. He'd refused to believe in Morgana's darkness until it was too late, and Arthur had been hurt by her betrayal far more than he ever would have been by her death.

"Do not allow this mask of innocence to fool you, Young Warlock," Kilgharrah cautioned. "The prophesy speaks of Mordred and Morgana united in evil. In dealing with the witch she preyed on your naivete and inexperience. Do not let the lessons you have gained from her go to waste."

"He hasn't done anything though!" Merlin snapped, agitated. "How can I take action against someone who's never done anything wrong?"

Kilgharrah's eyes narrowed again, as though considering. He craned his neck down, nearly resting his head on the ground in an effort to bring himself to Merlin's eye level. "You are neither a weakling nor a fool, Merlin," he said, his bright, unnatural eyes boring into the wizard. "Tell me, what has brought on this sudden uncertainty?"

Merlin's throat worked uselessly around the lump that had formed there. He wanted to confess what had happened, but at the same time he didn't want the dragon to know his weakness. His lips twitched, itching to form the words. His knees felt weak so he sat down, hard, crossing his legs and folding into himself like this could somehow shield him from the truth. He squeezed his eyes shut against the first prickling of tears.

"He kissed me," Merlin whispered at last, knowing the dragon had heard him none the less. "He spoke . . . he spoke to Arthur, about me. Kilgharrah, he spoke of _love."_

For some time neither of them spoke. Merlin did not look up, did not open his eyes, too afraid that the tears would spill out. Suddenly he felt hot wind on his arms, and then pressure as something warm and hard brushed against them. He looked up, startled, to find that Kilgharrah's head was now directly in front of him, his rounded nose bumping against him like an apologetic puppy. Merlin had expected the breath that could carry fire would smell of brimstone or sulfur, but instead it was pleasantly like wood smoke.

"Oh Merlin," Kilgharrah breathed, enveloping Merlin in fleeting warmth, voice soft and gentle. "Sometimes I forget that you are so young."

Merlin looked away, eyes dull.

"Do you know what a young dragon is called?" Kilgharrah asked. "When it is newly hatched?"

"A hatchling?" Merlin guessed.

"For a time," Kilgharrah conceded. "Once it is too big for its egg to be anything but a distant memory, it is called a Pip."

"Pip?" Merlin repeated in confusion. "Like the seed of a fruit?"

"Yes," Kilgharrah chuckled, "it seems rather ridiculous doesn't it? There's a reason for it, though."

"What's that?" Merlin asked, feeling oddly outside himself.

"The kind of plant that a seed grows into depends on what kind of plant it came from," Kilgharrah explained, "but it also depends on what kind of soil it is given to grow in."

He bumped Merlin with his nose again, and Merlin unfolded one of his arms to rest his hand on the dragon's snout. It wasn't scaly, as he'd thought it would be, but rather smooth like skin.

"You, little Pip," Kilgharrah continued, looking fondly at Merlin with his big, glowing eyes, "come from a very good tree. It's roots go deep. It is old and strong, and has weathered many storms."

"The Dragonlords," Merlin said quietly.

"And the Dragons," Kilgharrah confirmed. "We came from the same tree, you and I, though from different branches of it. I, however, was allowed to take root in rich soil. I had many friends and teachers, when I was young. I grew strong. The soil you grow in is barren. It is unfair to you, this desolation in which you have had to take root, but you have blossomed none the less. I have seen it."

Merlin gave him a weak smile, and the dragon blinked and pressed into his hand.

"There have been no teachers for you, no friends. Few to guide you, and fewer to walk at your side. You thirst for company, for companionship. I understand, Merlin."

"You think," Merlin stuttered, "you think, Mordred-"

"I know," Kilgharrah assured him, deep voice pained. "He comes to you now like the rain, like a stream that flows solely to bring you what you need. But this water, Merlin, it is _poisoned._ He is not your friend."

"It hurts," Merlin choked, not knowing what to say, not sure what he was arguing for or against anymore.

"It does, doesn't it?" Kilgharrah answered. His eyes were so big, as big as Merlin's head, and Merlin suddenly realized that the snout he was stroking was bigger than his whole body. He thought of what it would be like to be so big when everything and everyone around you was so small. It must be at least a little like being the most powerful sorcerer in the world, full of magic so great no one else could even understand. He thought of Mordred, so small and yet so dangerous, so beloved by the knights and yet so alone. Merlin felt closer, in that moment, to both of them, and at the same time lonelier than ever.

Kilgharrah straightened, stretching his neck up to look down at Merlin from above once more. His massive tail dipped down between Merlin's folded arms and wrapped around his waist, forcing him to cling to it to avoid being jerked up by his torso when the dragon pulled him to his feet. For a moment he lost contact with the ground, supported only by the warm, strong appendage holding him, but then he could feel the earth beneath him and he stood once more on his own.

"Thank you," he said, for lack of anything better to say. He wanted to apologize for the loneliness he knew Kilgharrah must feel, but he didn't have the words.

"I know this is difficult for you," Kilgharrah assured him, "but fate will have its way. Mordred will become your enemy, just as Morgana did. He will become the murderer from the prophesy. If it helps you can think of them as two different people. The Mordred you know now is an innocent, free of all darkness, and the Mordred-that-will-be is the monster that kills him."

He dipped his head down, close to Merlin once more. "Avenge him, Young Warlock."

And with that he turned and launched himself back into the sky, leaving Merlin feeling small and cold and hopelessly alone once more.


	6. Mordred Pleads His Case

Mordred had already decided what he was going to do. The trick was going to be finding the right time. It had to be a moment when Merlin felt comfortable, protected, safe. He should be content and relaxed, but not so much so that he felt as he was being ambushed while off guard. Mordred wrestled with whether it would better to do it when the sun was in the sky or after it had gone down; sunlight made everything seemed less threatening, but he wondered if the harsh light of day would not make Merlin shrewder, more calculating. At last he settled on calling Merlin away on some imaginary errand after dinner, when things became slow and unhurried, but day was not so far off that it felt unnatural to be up and about.

He had planned it all out. He would wait a few more days, perhaps a week, give Merlin a chance to settle his nerves and forget his anger. He had planned to give it _time._ But all his planning went out the window when he saw Merlin reentering the citadel by a servants' entrance at past midnight, an anxious look on his face and the puffy, red eyes of someone who had been crying.

"Merlin!" he called across the courtyard, making the wizard in question start and spin around. Startling him had decidedly not been part of the plan, but he was in it now.

"What are you doing out so late?" he asked, walking quickly up to Merlin, who thankfully did not flee, and taking him firmly by the arm. "It's not safe for servants to be out alone."

Merlin's eyes hardened. "I can take care of myself," he snapped, jerking his arm out of Mordred's grip.

Mordred took a step back, chastened. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I . . . you hardly ever . . . I had forgotten."

Merlin glared at him for another moment. Then an odd expression came over his face. As Mordred watched it softened, looking surprised, then confused, then . . . he didn't know. The look in his eyes was strange.

"We should go inside," said Merlin at last, voice neutral and expression unreadable. Mordred followed silently as he led the way back into the castle, pausing only to nod politely at a few of the guards as they passed.

They walked for some time in total silence, the only sound being their slightly muffled steps. Merlin didn't look at Mordred, kept his eyes forward as he navigated the stone corridors, but Mordred could not tear his gaze away from the back of Merlin's head. Mordred could communicate with people through their thoughts, but he could not read any further than what they wanted him to hear. He wanted to open Merlin's mind, discover all his secrets, but he hadn't the will or the magic to do so.

After some while Mordred realized that Merlin was not returning to the physician's quarters. Instead he led them higher into the castle, to the wings reserved for knights and nobility. Mordred almost stumbled on a loose stone, hardly daring to believe it, but sure enough Merlin evntually stopped outside the door to Mordred's own chambers.

Merlin fidgeted awkwardly for a moment. "Can I . . ." he tried, then stopped, seeming to cast around for the words he wanted. "Can we talk?" he asked finally, and Mordred was almost too shocked to do any more than nod his silent agreement.

Once inside Merlin didn't know what to do with himself. As Mordred leaned against the closed door for support Merlin made one lap of the room, paused, went to the lit and well tended fire, paused, went to the window, paused, then turned back to the room's owner, looking oddly confused.

This, Mordred realized, was his chance. Merlin wanted to talk to him, perhaps about what had happened, but didn't want to begin. Now was the opportunity he needed to tell his side, convince Merlin that his presumptions were wrong, that Mordred could be trusted, that this rift between them did not need to exist.

That what had happened in this very room no more than a fortnight ago had not been a mistake.

"I have no loyalty to Morgana," Mordred declared, as firmly as he could. Merlin looked startled. He stopped fidgeting and stood still, looking at Mordred as though seeing him for the first time.

"My mother died in childbirth," Mordred continued. "My father had cared for me since then. I had never known a mother's love. Morgana . . . the way she cared for me . . . it seemed as though that would be what it was like to have a mother."

"Weren't there other women in your camp?" Merlin asked. Mordred thrilled that the judgement was all but gone from his voice. He simply seemed curious.

"There were," Mordred conceded, "but they wouldn't go near me. I was born on Beltane, the spring-"

"Yes I know what Beltane is," Merlin cut him off, sounding impatient but not annoyed, "the spring festival, time of fertility, I'm not entirely unfamiliar with the Old Religion you know."

Mordred smiled weakly. "You are naturally in tune with it, you know. In all its parts it speaks to you."

Merlin blinked. "Gaius told me that," he explained, confused, "and we used to have a small festival back in Ealdor."

"Then you know that Beltane is a time for children to be conceived, not born," Mordred pressed. "The women of our camp said that it was a sign that I was out of sync with the natural order."

"That's stupid," Merlin snapped, making Mordred blink rapidly in surprise, "Beltane is also a time of rebirth. It's about the renewal of life, not the 'natural order.' There's nothing wrong with you because of your birthday."

Mordred smiled, a shy, happy, genuine smile that reached his eyes. He felt very warm all of a sudden. It wasn't praise, not really, but it made him feel pleased and proud just the same.

"That's very kind of you," he said softly.

"It's not kind, it's true," Merlin grumbled.

"Still," Mordred pressed, "its more than anyone's ever said for me. I was denied a mother's touch, so when Morgana's came it seemed impossibly comforting."

Merlin's expression went serious at the reminder of where Mordred's story had begun, but he refused to let it hinder him.

"It was you who saved me, Merlin," he declared, begging for understanding with his eyes. "It was you who answered my call, you who rescued me from the guards, you who found me a place to hide and tended my wound."

"It was Gaius who healed you," Merlin protested weakly.

"But you tended me, even with the limited skills you had then," Mordred insisted. "Everyone who helped me then, even Arthur, did so because you spoke on my behalf. It was Arthur who took me back to my people, but it was _you_ who saved me."

Mordred took a tentative step forward, and then another. Merlin did not move. At last Mordred was standing before him, close enough to touch but not daring to.

"I serve Arthur because he showed compassion to Morgana, even when she had nothing but hatred to give him," Mordred breathed, holding Merlin's anxious gaze with his own, "but I am loyal to _you."_

Merlin's eyes were wide and vulnerable. He searched Mordred's face for . . . something. Evidently, though, he did not find it, as the next moment his face hardened again.

"The last time we met when you were a child, you were working with bandits." Merlin stated. "You tried to steal from the king, killed at least two knights when we pursued you, and when I tried to prevent you from fleeing with the crystal you swore vengeance on me. You swore that you would never forgive, and never forget."

Mordred fought to control his breathing. He had no answer for this. He had managed to all but forget that day, block it from his memory along with a thousand other childish fits of temper, but suddenly it all came rushing back in painful detail. Feeling Merlin's curious mind probing from the other side of the door to Morgana's chambers. The sound the knight had made as the spear sunk into his stomach. The sharp pain of the tree root on his ankles, and the despair as he felt the crystal slip from his small fingers. The fury and hatred and pain that rose in his throat like bile at what seemed like betrayal, making him spit angry words with his mind. Merlin had obviously taken his venomous declaration to heart, and he could scarcely pass off a day when men had died as a child's tantrum now.

"I . . . I . . ." he stuttered. He had no words to explain this. How could he make Merlin understand? Was there any excuse for his behavior that would be accepted? At last he hung his head, throat constricting painfully around the bitter tang of defeat.

"I have no answer for this. I was a child . . . but that is no excuse. I can only beg forgiveness for . . . what happened on that day."

He fully expected to be left alone. He couldn't think that Merlin would want to remain in his presence a moment longer. He braced himself for the sound of boots walking away, walking out the door never to return, carrying his last chance far beyond his reach. Instead he felt a hand, still cool from the night air, cup his cheek. He looked up, startled, into Merlin's face, and his breath was abruptly stolen from him. Merlin's face was . . . kind. His mouth was tilted upward in a gentle smile. His brow was smooth, unfurrowed and untroubled. His eyes . . . his eyes. Knowing, benevolent, forgiving. The eyes he had dreamed of.

"It's like there are three of you," Merlin breathed, voice soft, "past, present, and future."

He took a step closer, bringing them close enough to feel the heat of each other's bodies. He held Mordred's frightened gaze with his own, leaning in until his blue, blue eyes filled Mordred's vision completely. Then they slipped closed, and Merlin pressed his lips to Mordred's.

It was nothing like their first kiss. Indeed it was the exact opposite. Where as that one had been a harsh clash of two forces intend on dominating each other, this one was a soft, tender joining. Neither of them moved, merely reveled in the gentle pressure of another's lips on their own. Mordred could feel Merlin's magic pulsing under his skin in time with his heartbeat, calling to him, reaching out for him, bathing them both in golden warmth. He felt almost as though, if he could only make his heart beat in time with Merlin's, their magics would join, and there would be no more barriers between them.

When Merlin pulled away Mordred gasped, not having realized his was hold his breath. Merlin giggled, the tiny laugh bubbling up from his throat quite unexpectedly, and Mordred couldn't help but smile.

"Why, though?" he whispered across Merlin's face. "Why now?"

Merlin frowned slightly, though his eyes lost none of their fondness, or their serenity. "Today I can love you as you are now," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Tomorrow I will deal with you as you are then. It is as simple as that."

Mordred's heart had left his chest to hover somewhere near the ceiling. His hands itched to be everywhere at once, to hold and caress and bury themselves in soft raven hair. His magic writhed beneath his skin, demanding leave to express it's joy, and he wouldn't be surprised to discover that some of the things on his mantelpiece had rearranged themselves in the morning.

When he didn't speak, though, a worried expression crossed Merlin's face.

"Mordred?" he asked tentatively, starting to withdraw his hand. "Was it . . . do you . . ."

Mordred caught his wrist, pressing it back against his face.

"I would like very much to do that again," he said simply.

Merlin smiled.

**Author's Note:** See, Kilgharrah's advice wasn't all that bad. I've kind of been feeling recently that you have to look at Mordred as three different characters; the druid boy, the knight, and the traitor. Each one has very little to do with the others, meaning that if you judge the present one on the past or future one's you'll be surprised, because he won't act the same as them at all. How you get from one to another . . . therein lies the mystery. Also, because I forgot to mention it in the last ch (two in two days, give me a break!) I've always wanted a scene where Kilgharrah wraps his tail around Merlin, like a hug, or to lift him up or something. I understand why they can't do it on the show, it's a little bit beyond their special effects budget, but I've just always thought it would be cute.


	7. Arthur Confides in Guinevere

Arthur Pendragon was going mad. There was no other explanation. He was going completely, absolutely, stark raving mad. He was the King of a strong, prosperous country. He had a round table full of loyal knights. He had the world's most beautiful queen; a wise, loving, beautiful woman at his side every day and in his bed every night.

Yet still he was discontent. Discontent for lack of something, no, _someone,_ who he could never have. Someone he should never even have wanted. Someone who had haunted his thoughts for nigh on a month now. Someone whose pale skin, bright eyes and full lips had dominated his every waking thought, then pursued him still into his dreams to torture him with the pleasure they might bring if he could only possess this one person.

His bloody _servant,_ of all creatures.

Technically speaking, he did possess Merlin. He was in Arthur's service, bound to follow his every command. He could easily order him to perform the acts which the King had begun to so crave, if only his damnable pride would allow it. The thought hovered constantly on the edge of his consciousness, a nagging reminder that he could end his own torment at any time.

Oh, and what sweet torment it was.

It had started with his lips. He'd first noticed them when he'd been talking to Merlin about Mordred. It sickened him to think that this infatuation had begun when he'd been trying to set the object of his desire up with someone else, perhaps even more than the desire itself did. Still, his promise to Mordred was the furthest thing from his mind every time his eyes lingered on those lips. Plump and pink and perfect they were. Pale, like the rest of him. They were so full that they stuck out from his face, forming a slight, perpetual pout just begging to be kissed away. They looked achingly soft, and delicate, like they could bruise from just one touch. Arthur longed to find out how easily Merlin's lips bruised, how many kisses it would take to have him looking desperate and debauched. He wanted to know just what it would take to have him panting, have him whining, have him begging.

As though Merlin's lips weren't distracting enough, just above them were his eyes. In all Arthur's previous experience with blue eyes, they had been light blue, flecked with green most of the time, making them more like the sea than the sky. He had only seen pure, dark blue eyes when he looked in a mirror. How had he never noticed that Merlin had those same eyes, deep and dark and completely blue? It was almost as though they were long lost brothers. The thought should have left Arthur revolted with own desire, but somehow it only fueled the flames.

Arthur was going mad. A thousand and one things he had somehow never noticed about his servant before now drew him like a beacon, like a spell, like an invisible thread that pulled his eyes to linger where they didn't belong. He contemplated the paleness of Merlin's skin, wondering why it never seemed to darken in the sun. He studied Merlin's hands, how his longer fingers wrapped around whatever he was holding like a caress and the casual way they brushed his neck or his arms while getting the King out of his clothes, making him wonder how they would feel on other parts of his anatomy. He stared at Merlin's hipbones, noting the thinness of his waist and imagining wrapping his large hands around it to pull his servant flush against his body.

This would not do. He would have to bed Merlin or go mad trying to restrain himself.

But _Guinevere._

He could not betray his Queen. Not after what he'd gone through to get her. Not after how long he'd had to wait. Not having tasted life without her, and knowing how miserable it was. He knew how it felt to see the one you loved in the arms of another. He couldn't put her through that, not knowing what it was like. He couldn't _hurt_ her that way.

He didn't think he could do it to Mordred either. He had vowed to mend the rift between them, to help his young knight woo his beloved, to see the two of them together. He had _promised_ Merlin to Mordred.

But wait. No. No, Merlin was not his to promise. Not to Mordred, not to anyone. Merlin was not his property, not a thing to be bought and sold and traded away. He was his own man. How Arthur wished it wasn't so. He wished that Merlin could be owned, could be _his._ Then Arthur could just _keep_ him. Keep him locked away, far from prying eyes and grasping hands, only his, only _Arthur's._

The thought of someone else touching Merlin drove Arthur nearly to fits. Whenever someone brushed him in the corridor made him grind his teeth. Whenever one of the knights clapped him on the shoulder it made his blood boil. The thought that even now he might be in Mordred's bed, that he might be being touched, being pleased by those filthy druid hands made Arthur want to howl his rage at the sky like a wolf.

_It would not do._

Keeping his emotions bottled up inside was turning him into a proper tyrant. He already couldn't help taking his frustration out on the servants, it was only a matter of time before it began to show in his political decisions. He would have to tell someone.

"Guinevere," Arthur began cautiously, late one night as they were preparing for bed. The Queen, sitting at her vanity to comb out her hair, glanced over one dark shoulder in acknowledgement. She was a vision in her beautiful cream silk nightdress, the fabric flowing delicately over her curves and giving her an alluring softness.

"Something the matter my love?" she asked, turning back to the mirror but meeting his eye in the glass from where he was propped up on his pillows.

"No, not really," he replied, trying to keep his voice casual. He wasn't even sure this was something she would be able to understand, in fact he doubted she had ever wanted anything as fiercely as he wanted Merlin. "Nothing that you need to worry about, anyway."

Gwen smiled, a warm, knowing smile. "What worries you worries me."

"It doesn't worry me," Arthur assured her. "Only . . . only occupies my thoughts, I suppose."

An amused looked flashed in Gwen's eyes. "Perhaps I can aid you in your contemplation?" she inquired playfully.

Arthur smiled weakly, not in the mood for playfulness. "Do you . . . Guinevere, are you happy?"

She frowned, confused. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"No reason," Arthur said hurriedly, "I only wondered - not to say that you weren't _happy,_ only - is there ever a feeling of, I don't know, _wanting,_ in your life?"

Gwen paused. She regarded him carefully in the mirror, her eyes taking on an odd look he couldn't place. "I want for nothing," she said evenly, after a moment.

Arthur looked off to the side, trying not to be disappointed. He hadn't really thought she'd understand. "I wish I could say the same."

He was vaguely aware that Gwen's combing had resumed, but slower, her focus now on the conversation. "Is there anything in particular that you _want_ for, my love?"

"Indeed," Arthur sighed, "but there's little to be done."

"You are King," Guinevere said softly, "you deserve to have what you desire. Surely anything within reason can easily be made yours."

"I fear that reason is not something that can be applied in this situation," Arthur replied bitterly.

Gwen set down her comb, with rather more of a clatter than was really necessary. "Pity," she said simply.

Some time passed when neither of them said anything. Arthur continued to stare out the window, not really seeing what was outside it but rather contemplating the dull ache in his chest for lack of Merlin's hand to rest affectionately on the place over his heart. Sharing a companionable silence with his Queen made him long to share one with his servant, and knowing that he never would without work and chores to act as barriers between them was enough to make him heartsick. He felt wretched and almost betrayed, alone in the world.

At long last Gwen stood and crossed the room to join him on the bed.

"Have you talked to any of your knights about this feeling of . . . wanting?" she asked as she arranged herself under the covers beside him. She propped herself up on her pillows as well, and took a scroll of parchment from her nightstand, which she then unrolled and began to read.

Arthur stared turned to watch her for a moment, then went back to staring at the window. "No," he sighed, "I doubt they would understand any better than you."

"Not even Mordred?" she asked lightly.

Arthur's head snapped around, his heart leaping into his throat. He turned fully, staring at her as she continued to read her parchment. "No," he repeated, mind whirring as he tried to figure out what would have brought his youngest knight to her mind.

"You should," she advised distractedly, seeming absorbed in whatever she was reading, "it seems as though he might be one to understand. Perhaps not anymore though."

"Why?" Arthur asked, trying not to let his voice sound too sharp, too interested. "What makes you think of him? Why wouldn't he understand anymore?"

"Oh, hadn't you noticed?" Guinevere asked, glancing up from her scroll briefly. "For some time there he was rather lovesick. Pining he was, over Merlin."

"Of all people," Arthur tried to scoff, failing miserably. Another few moments passed in silence as Arthur stared into space, trying not to feel sick. What did she mean 'for a time'? Had something changed? Did that mean that Mordred was no longer interested in Merlin, or that their relationship had somehow progressed without the King noticing? He was just about to open his mouth to ask when Guinevere continued of her own accord.

"I'm so happy those two found each other though," she sighed dreamily, smiling gently at her parchment.

"What do you mean?" Arthur demanded, sounding far more interested than he would have liked but much to curious to care.

"You hadn't heard?" asked Guinevere, parchment folding in her limp hands as they fell into her lap, her attention focused solely on Arthur now. "Merlin and Mordred have become, well, an _item,_ you might say."

She giggled, and Arthur's heart sank like a stone. It couldn't be, it just _couldn't_ be.

"You don't say," he choked.

Guinevere giggled again. "Yes," she tittered, "Merlin's spent several nights in Mordred's chambers in the last few weeks. And you can see it whenever they're together, just watch them, you'll notice. They're in love, its obvious. Quite besotted with each other."

"Indeed," Arthur croaked, voice quite gone. This was it. What he had feared all along. Merlin, _his_ Merlin, was in bed with his youngest knight. How _could_ he have been so blind. Even now, as he lay beside his Queen, his servant was in the arms of that filthy druid. Those full lips were being carelessly ravaged, that glorious pale skin caressed by clumsy, childish hands. He could almost see Merlin's blue eyes clouded with pleasure; pleasure brought to him, no, _forced_ on him by someone common and impure and who _**wasn't Arthur**_. The mere thought made his stomach churn. He wanted to leap from his bed, take up his sword and rush to Mordred's chambers, to tear the bloody peasant of his precious Merlin and run him through. He wanted to take Merlin into his arms and kiss him, kiss him breathless and pliant and desperate, until Arthur could just _have_ Merlin, all to himself.

But no. It was late. He was in bed with his Queen. Dallying with a servant was no crime, especially not when the King had given his express blessing. Merlin was not his to claim in such a way.

"Is everything alright Arthur?" Guinevere was asking gently at his side, looking up at him with an impossible innocence in her eyes, laced oddly with something more. There it was again, that look he couldn't place.

"Yes," Arthur replied automatically, wanting to put her mind at ease. "Yes everything's alright."

Guinevere smiled knowingly and rolled up her parchment, lowering herself in bed to rest her head on the pillows. Arthur blew out the candle and followed her, rolling onto his side so he was facing away from her.

Yes. Everything was alright. Or at least it would be.

He was the King of Camelot and he was entitled to anything that he desired. His knights had no privilege to question him, or to stand in his way of obtaining what he longed for. He would talk to Merlin, impress upon him the urgency of his need. Merlin was loyal, a faithful and dedicated servant. He loved his King, of that Arthur was sure. He would come to Arthur's bed, would do whatever it took to please his master.

And there wasn't a damn thing Mordred could do about it.

**Author's Note: **This turned out a bit . . . darker than I intended. I made Gwen a sneaky sass-master. Queen Guinevere is having none of your shit Arthur! *sigh* Now I miss Lancelot.


	8. Merlin Speaks His Mind

Mordred's favorite part of the day had become when one day and another met. It was close to midnight, when the moon was directly overhead, shining silver through the window of Mordred's chambers. The nights were yet warm, so a soft breeze wandered through the open window, but Mordred was already beginning to long for winter's chill, when he would have an excuse to keep the fire going all night, see Merlin bathed in its golden glow rather than in pale moonlight.

It was about this time that Merlin's energy began to wane. He lay bare and panting in Mordred's bed, hair in a dark halo of disarray upon the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded and body limp and pliant.

Mordred leaned over him, drinking in the sight he had come to know so well yet craved like air and water every time it was taken from him. So much skin, so smooth and unmarked. He idly traced the triskelion over his own heart, not for the first time wondering what it would take to get Merlin to let him draw one somewhere on this pale, perfect body. It was like blank parchment, like empty canvass, maddening anyone who looked upon it with an undeniable need to fill the space.

He longed to use ink and needle, but his mouth would do for now.

"My breath, my breath, you demon!" Merlin protested, laughing none the less. "Give an old man a moment, you little brat!"

Mordred looked up from the love-mark he'd been worrying into Merlin's collarbone, grinning mischievously. "You're older than me, that doesn't make you an old man," he countered lightly, watching fondly as the corners of Merlin's eyes crinkled in amusement.

Mordred licked playfully at Merlin's brow, tasting sweat and magic. Then again, what about Merlin didn't taste of magic? Mordred was beginning to think that Merlin wasn't a practitioner of the old religion at all, but rather one of its many creatures taking human form to suit its needs.

"I've been an old man before, you know," Merlin sighed, one hand coming up to play with Mordred's dark hair, plucking at one long curl until it was straight and then watching it spring back when he let it go. "With magic."

"Have you really?" Mordred laughed, then turned his head to nuzzle at Merlin's wrist.

Merlin nodded, and his hand left Mordred's hair to cup his face, one thumb sliding carelessly over his cheekbone. "You should see it," he said softly, eyeing Mordred appraisingly. "It's quite amusing."

Mordred shuddered. Even the simple motion of that one finger made his blood grow hot. "I would like to," he murmured, not wanting to disturb the tender moment between them. "You could teach me the spell. I might need it some day."

Merlin's eyes danced as he watched Mordred shivering under his touch. "I look rather ridiculous with a long white beard," he continued. "You can still tell it's me though, Arthur could recognize my eyes."

At the mention of the King Mordred felt the familiar weight settling heavier in his heart. Even now, he could not shake his jealousy. He had Merlin _in his bed_, languishing after his third orgasm, staring up at him with those dark, affectionate eyes, and still he couldn't help the possessive snarl that rose in his throat every time Arthur's name left Merlin's lips. The King had _sanctioned_ this, had given his _blessing,_ but Mordred still felt sick, haunted by the knowledge that it didn't matter what Arthur thought, he would always be more important to Merlin than anything.

He would always hold the piece of Merlin's heart that Mordred wanted most.

He tried not to let his feelings show, but staring into Mordred's eyes Merlin saw something that made his brow crease in worry. That was no good. Mordred didn't want him worried. He wanted Merlin happy, content, _pleased_ with Mordred. He didn't want Merlin's thoughts lingering on Arthur, on how his name made Mordred feel.

Merlin, it seemed, was just as interested in getting off the subject of the King as Mordred was. He had barely registered the determined look creeping into Merlin's eyes before he was flat on his back with no clue how he got there, Merlin kneeling on the bed to his left and looming over him like a predator, like a god.

"Let's not talk about him now," Merlin purred, pressing a single finger against Mordred's lips. "Let's talk about how good I'm about to make you feel."

Mordred felt magic gathering in Merlin's fingertip and whimpered, eyes falling closed as he realized what came next. Mordred was still amazed that Merlin could do this without an incantation, almost as amazed as he was that a spell like this existed in the first place. As the enchantment began to glow and spark between Merlin's skin and his own he fought down his private thrill at the thought that perhaps, knowing how much Mordred loved the feel of his magic, Merlin had created the spell just for him. The single, solitary finger rubbed slowly over Mordred's lips, then moved across his cheek and down the column of his throat, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. The point of contact was pure pleasure, which lingered wherever the pinpoint spell passed over his skin, and Mordred's whole body felt sensitive, craving the touch.

Merlin dragged his bespelled finger down Mordred's chest, leaving a teasing ring of tingling warmth around his right nipple before continuing downward. Mordred had barely the room in his mind to wonder if it was magic or his own inability to deny Merlin anything that kept him pinned in place, but he could do nothing more than arch up into the touch as it skated lazily down his stomach toward his groin. He was equally unable to contain the string of broken, breathy sounds as his lover tortured him with that finger, punctuated by Merlin's dark chuckling as he watched a Knight of Camelot reduced to a mewling wreck beneath his hands.

Sometimes Mordred wondered if he was Merlin's first lover, or if Merlin had simply been alone for so long he'd had plenty of time to think of ways to please someone with his magic.

It seemed Merlin was going to take pity on him this time. Perhaps it was the late hour, or because he had already made Mordred come twice more than the reverse, but he removed his finger, letting the druid fall back against the bed, panting. There had been a night, not long ago, that Merlin had done nothing but tease him with that spell, dragging a single finger over Mordred's body, criss-crossing lines of hot rapture until Mordred could _feel_ strong magic holding him down lest he thrash his way wildly off the bed, sobbing and begging for all he was worth.

"Open your eyes," Merlin commanded. There was no heat to his voice, no steel, no pressure, but it never crossed Mordred's mind to disobey. His eyes blinked open without conscious thought, and he watched as Merlin brought his faintly glowing fingertip to his own lips and licked away the spell. Mordred couldn't contain his whine as he watched Merlin literally _eat_ a work of magic, drawing it into himself in the most intimate possible way.

Mordred forced himself not to think of what it would feel like to have Merlin devour his magic, lick his power up with his tongue and leave him helpless and empty, a mere vessel, ready to be filled with whatever magic Merlin chose to put into him.

Gods, Merlin hadn't even touched his cock and he was going to come. Again.

Apparently Mordred was an open bloody book, as Merlin's eyes glittered knowingly in the dark, and two fingers came to encircle the base of his cock, not hard enough to hurt but just enough to choke off some of the blood flow, letting Mordred breath easier, if only for a moment. He leaned in to lick carefully at the nipple he had neglected with his magic, earning a jerk of Mordred's body and another breathy gasp. He lapped at it gently, like a cat, for several long moments, seeming to enjoy Mordred squirming underneath him.

When he sat back, however, his eyes were full of intent. He released Mordred's cock and tucked one hand beneath his knee, then pulled slightly.

"Spread your legs," he instructed, "plant your feet on the bed. Hands up on the pillow. You can grasp or bite it if you need to."

Mordred hurried to obey. Whatever his history of lovers, Merlin was definitely the more experienced of the two, and Mordred was more than happy to follow his lead. It did things to him, knowing he was serving Merlin, knowing he was _pleasing_ Merlin with his obedience. He felt vulnerable and protected and desired, spread out like this for his lover to enjoy.

"So lovely," Merlin whispered as he settled between Mordred's legs, eyes full of admiration and affection and hunger.

Hands which should have been work-calloused but instead were magic-smooth caressed his inner thighs, and suddenly Mordred felt a pang of longing for a kiss-mark sucked into his own creamy flesh. There was no time to vocalize his wish, however, before his voice was stolen as one soft hand cupped his cock in a sure grip, fingers rolling to massage the hard, aching length as the thumb smeared precome around the bulbous head. Merlin pumped him once, twice, three time, before removing his hand and leaning down to take Mordred into his mouth.

It was something they'd only done once before. Roughly a week ago in the small hours of the morning Merlin had offered his mouth for pleasure, despite having refused the same service from Mordred several times. Mordred had been craving Merlin's cock in his mouth, to have a part of Merlin _inside_ him, but Merlin wouldn't have it, wouldn't let Mordred please him in such a way. It made Mordred feel slightly sick, wondering if it was because he was still somehow afraid to be so vulnerable, even before his lover.

Merlin's mouth was impossibly hot as he suckled the head for a moment, before sliding his mouth down the shaft until he had taken in most of it. Mordred was gulping down air as though he had just broken the surface of a lake, crying out as Merlin sucked, fluttering his tongue against the the underside, then slid the head just far enough into his throat and _swallowed._

"Merlin, love, _please!"_ Mordred choked, fighting not to writhe like a mad serpent under Merlin's mouth, clutching at the pillow and whipping his head side to side when the hand Merlin wasn't using to support himself began playing with his balls. He was desperate, mindless, beyond himself, and without thinking he bucked his hips just so, driving one of Merlin's fingers against his entrance and grinding down on it.

Everything stopped. Merlin released Mordred's cock and withdrew his hand as though it had been burnt. He sat back on his heels, glaring at Mordred reproachfully.

"_I said no_," he hissed.

Mordred whined, body weak, cock aching. "But . . ." he began, trying to call back enough of his mind to form a convincing argument.

"No!" Merlin snapped, eyes flashing. "I told you, I'm not going to hurt you!"

"You won't!" Mordred protested, struggling upright to face Merlin. "I told you, I know a spell to stop the pain, you're not going to-"

"No!" Merlin yelled, louder still, then flinched and went quiet, looking guiltily at the door as he remembered the hour. They both held their breath a moment, listening for sounds of anyone stirring, before Merlin continued.

"It's not," Merlin paused, breathed a frustrated sigh through his teeth, then started again. "Look, it's not just a matter of physical pain, alright? You don't know what it means, Mordred. You're too young-"

"I'm less than ten years your junior!" Mordred whispered as loudly as he dared, voice hardened by the hot stab of betrayal in his heart at Merlin's condescending words. "Don't treat me like a child who doesn't understand-"

"Do you want me to leave?"

Mordred's words died in his throat. Icy fear spread through his veins and his skin prickled with panicked sweat. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen, clumsy, unable to form words even if he'd managed a coherent though beyond **_Dear Gods no!_**

Merlin, however, was staring at him with a challenge in his eyes. "If this isn't what you want then tell me," he insisted. "If I can't give you what you need then _tell me._ I'll leave, I'll let you go and find what you're looking for, but don't, _don't_ try to change me to suit your needs. I have too much responsibility to be your _plaything,_ Mordred."

"No!" Mordred shrieked, launching upright to look Merlin in the eye. He registered dimly that he'd rather lost the argument for his maturity, as he suddenly found tears flowing freely down his face. He was choking out quiet little sobs but he didn't care, couldn't bring himself to care about anything besides the threat of Merlin getting up and leaving his bed for good.

"Please," he whispered, "don't go. I'm sorry. You're not a plaything, I didn't mean it like that. I won't ask again, just . . ." he looked down, unable to face the hard look in Merlin's eyes. "Just stay with me, please?"

Mordred forced himself to breath; slow, shaky breaths through trembling lips. He knew his face must be a blotchy mess and he didn't want Merlin to see him like this, blubbering like a child unable to control himself. He was surprised, though, when Merlin pressed his forehead gently against Mordred's, leaning in to rub their noses together.

"It's alright," he whispered, breath warm and comforting against Mordred's face, "I'm here. It wasn't," he hesitated, "alright it was a threat, I guess, but I didn't mean to make you cry. I just want you to _think._ I wish it was a simple as me wanting you and you wanting me, but the world is more complicated than that. This is what I can give you, Mordred, and it's not everything I have and maybe it's not what you want, but if it isn't then you need to tell me now."

Merlin's tongue darted out and licked at Mordred's tear-wet lips.

"If I can't give you what you want, then you need to tell me so."

Mordred looked up, into Merlin's sweet, kind, worried eyes, and his heart melted like snow before a fire. He _knew_ what to say, somehow the words so far beyond his reach before were suddenly crystal clear inside his mind.

"Oh Merlin," he whispered, and pressed a tiny, tender kiss against Merlin's lips. When Merlin didn't pull away he continued pecking small kisses there, murmuring his words against Merlin's mouth. "It's not some_thing_ that I want but some_one_," he continued between kisses. "Yes I want everything with you, but I want _you_ more. If this is what you can give then this is what I want. You're all that I want."

Merlin breathed a sigh of relief and pressed in closer. He kissed Mordred, shallow and more lip than tongue, then began to lick carefully at the tear trails down his lover's face. Mordred held still and let Merlin clean away the evidence of his pain, feeling Merlin's magic pulse tender and fond against him. Suddenly he felt it break free from Merlin's skin, hovering on the surface like golden mist for a moment before spreading slowly outwards. Mordred gasped, feeling the magic flow around him, flow _through_ him, wrapping him in a blissful warmth that cut him off from the world, from anything that wasn't Merlin. He felt it playing with his own magic the way Merlin had played with his hair, teasing it out to the limits of his control, pulling him in a hundred directions at once toward the sweet tormenting presence that was _all around_ him, _inside_ him, a _part_ of him.

_**Is this what you wanted?**_ Mordred heard Merlin's voice echo, benevolent, affectionate, inside his mind.

_**Oh yes**,_ he answered in the same way, not sure his gaping mouth could form words. _**Yes, this is what I wanted to feel. You, around me, inside me.**_

He saw Merlin's grin before his eyes but heard the laugh inside his head. _**Silly boy, you only had to ask. This I can give you**._

Mordred fell back against the bed with a dreamy sigh, pulling Merlin down with him by the arm. They lay together like that, pressed skin to skin, magic to magic, and Mordred could have been content to stay like this forever. Then he heard the dark chuckle, brushing against his mind like a whisper against his ear.

**_Hold on now,_** was the only warning he received before the magic around him went hot and hard and intent, searing a burning pleasure into every last inch his skin. Mordred screamed, feeling magic, thick like syrup, fill his mouth to stifle the noise. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire, sending pleasure shooting through him like the strike of lighting. The magic was penetrating him, stabbing into his body deeper than any cock to touch him at his very core.

He struggled, twisting uncontrollably as though lying on hot coals, fighting against the overwhelming sensation that threatened to consume his mind and body. It was too much, he couldn't take it, couldn't take it all at once! But there was Merlin above him, thrusting desperately against his hip, sending a stream of endearments and promises and praise through the steady link between their minds. Mordred could feel his intent more than understand the words, could feel Merlin telling him how good he was, how wonderful. Merlin was _proud_ of Mordred, was _pleased_ with Mordred, and that more than anything else was enough to send him crashing over the edge so violently he forgot everything but how it felt to be _one_ with Merlin.

_**I love you**,_ Merlin whispered into his mind.

The warmth of Merlin's release on his stomach was the last thing Mordred was able to feel before he blacked out.

When he woke up, Merlin was gone.


	9. Freya Delivers a Warning

**Author's Note**: I AM A TERRIBLE AUTHOR AND I'M VERY SORRY! There are probably a lot of typos in this, but I wanted you guys to have it before I have to be worried about going back to school because I've been so bad at being productive lately. I'll edit it later.

* * *

Magic was a tricky, tricky thing.

Love was tricky too, but Merlin was trying not to think about that right now.

Actually Merlin was trying not to think about a lot of things right now. For instance, he was trying not to consider how the longer Mordred stayed in the castle the more it seemed too small and stifling to contain him in his over-emotional states. Or how the more he got involved with Mordred the more frequent his over-emotional states were getting. Or the fact that he considered himself "involved" with Mordred at all.

He should not be "involved" with the person who was perhaps the biggest threat to Arthur since Morgana had betrayed them.

Except that he was involved. He tried to tell himself that he wasn't, that he had taken Kilgharrah's advice and put all thoughts of trusting Mordred out of his mind. He was just keeping him close, keeping a sharp eye. He didn't trust Mordred. What they had was purely casual. It was comfort. There was no trust involved in their relationship. They weren't in love.

Were they?

No. No. He'd said something in the throws of passion, that didn't make it true. Just last week Mordred had sworn that he'd be Merlin's willing slave if they could only move one particularly heated kiss the bed as fast as possible, but that didn't mean that he'd actually meant it. It was just one of those things people said.

Unless Mordred had meant it.

No. He wasn't thinking about that right now.

Just like he wasn't thinking about how his magic had acted on its own, called beyond his control by the undeniable pull he felt whenever Mordred looked him with those heated, desperate eyes.

Merlin threw back his head and howled in frustration at the night sky, the sound reverberating off the trees and sending a few birds twittering indignantly from their nests.

The nights were getting colder. It wouldn't be long before winter would make these nighttime excursions impossible. He had to find a way to deal with his emotions while staying inside the castle walls. Tonight, however, the chill air was bracing, grounding, and he welcomed it. He couldn't go back to the clearing, couldn't summon Kilgharrah again after doing exactly what he'd been instructed to avoid, so instead he found himself heading in the direction of the lake.

He now knew it was called the Lake of Avalon, though he hadn't when he'd laid Freya to rest here. More than once he'd seen someone come here to contact the powerful, sinister Sidhe, but he had thought it was simply the presence of standing water, and not this particular lake. It seemed ordinary enough now, its still, glassy water reflecting the trees and stars and moonlight like a vast mirror, but he new the a great power lived within the lake. It was a gateway, like the Crystal Cave, a means of reaching the mysterious otherness that lurked beyond his limited human understanding.

He wondered absently if perhaps he might one day know more about why the world had to be so divided, why all that was living and breathing had to be separate from all that was ancient and eternal.

"Merlin . . ."

Merlin jumped, then looked all round himself. Th voice had sounded close, but there was no one there, not even a tree nearby that someone could hide behind.

"Merlin."

The call was firmer this time, and its point of origin was now clearly somewhere below him, at his feet. Merlin looked down, and saw only his reflection in the still water. But no, it wasn't his reflection. Or rather, it was, but as he watched the image rippled before his eyes, misting over like the surface of a mirror, then clearing to reveal a familiar pair of large brown eyes.

"Freya!" Merlin breathed in wonder, kneeling down.

"Merlin!" she replied happily, gazing up at him from the water. She was clearly not physically below him, as the water was shallow this close to the shore, but rather it was merely her image looking back at him.

"What, h-how-" Merlin stuttered, mind whirring as he tried to come up with an explanation for Freya's appearance.

"Shh," Freya quieted him, holding up a finger, "hush, and let me explain. There is something you must know about this lake, in order to understand."

"I know it's magic," Merlin assured her, but she shook her head.

"More than that," she insisted, "it has a unique position in the relationship between worlds. It is a gateway, between this world and Avalon."

"You mean, the afterlife?" Merlin asked.

Freya shook her head. "More complicated than that. Avalon is the home of all magic. It is the Beyond, Merlin, the world that came before and shall come after. It is where all life originates. All life, and all magic."

"So it's not a place, really," Merlin mused. "It's more of a state."

"Exactly," Freya laughed, as though relieved that he understood. "From the great energy of Avalon comes the essence that makes up all human souls. This lake is a portal between worlds, and is suffused with Avalon's primal energy. It's waters are especially good for divination, as Avalon has no concept of time, and so the past, present and future all blend together."

"Is it . . . is it, where you've been?" Merlin asked tentatively.

Freya smiled wanly up at him. She raised a hand, presenting him with her palm. If it had been a sheet of glass separating them, her hand would be pressed right up against it. Merlin mirrored her, placing his hand on the surface of the water, but water was all the he felt. He could feel the lap of the water, and the tingle of magic, but not the warmth of Freya's touch.

"No," he whispered sadly, "it's where you are now."

Freya breathed a shaky sigh, and Merlin moved his hand so he could see her more clearly.

"You laid me to rest in this lake," Freya continued, "and because of that my soul was not fully separated from my body before crossing over. I have been in Avalon, yes, but my soul has not yet joined the ether. I have kept my mind, and not been able to fully pass on."

"I've trapped you?" Merlin said in alarm.

"Not for much longer," she told him gently, kindly. "I've . . . I've seen so many things. I can go, I will go, soon, but first I had to tell you something."

Freya looked up at him earnestly, eyes full of worry, and sorrow, and pity.

"I had to set you free."

"What do you mean?" Merlin asked, perplexed. "Set me free? How am I not free?"

"You are a prisoner," she declared. "A prisoner of destiny."

Merlin shook his head. "No, you've got this wrong. Destiny isn't some thing that holds you. You can't escape it, what must be shall be and all that, but that doesn't mean-"

"It is not so," Freya interrupted. "Destiny is not what you think it is Merlin. It is not a story, written out long ago, in which you must simply play a part. There are no lines for you to read out, no script that you must follow."

"What is it then?" Merlin demanded, needing to know despite how afraid he was of the answer.

"Destiny may put you in a place where you must defend yourself or die," Freya told him, "but it cannot force you to pick up a sword. The power of your own soul is yours alone. Fate can decree that a choice must be made, but it cannot determine which path you will take."

"So . . ." Merlin hesitated. "So, destiny can be changed. Shaped, by one's choices."

"Yes," Freya assured him, "yes, that's exactly right, particularly for someone as powerful as you. Your choices have the power to shape many destinies."

Merlin's heart was beating much too fast. It seemed in imminent danger of flying out his mouth. He wanted to believe what Freya was saying, wanted so badly to believe that he could change fate. He was vibrating with it, the hope and excitement that the crushing weight he had felt for so long my be within his power to lift.

"So I can change the druid seer's vision? I can . . . I can save Arthur."

Freya stared up at him, a look of tearful concern in her wide brown eyes. "Is he all that matters to you?"

"His life is more important than mine," Merlin insisted. "Please tell me how I can save him!"

Freya gazed up at him, eyes pleading with him to understand.

"Only by saving yourself."

"What?"

"On the first day, when you saved Mordred's life," Freya told him, "your destiny with Arthur unraveled."

"Unraveled?" Merlin repeated, confused. Then he paused. Suddenly something Kilgharrah had said to him came back, something from the day he had met Mordred, the day he had first learned his name was Emrys.

"If the boy lives, you cannot fulfill your destiny."

"My destiny," Merlin breathed. "He meant . . . he meant my destiny with Arthur."

"The Great Dragon is wise," Freya confirmed, a gentle smile tugging at her lips, "but even he cannot know all things."

"He knew about this," Merlin choked, bowing his head.

A lump was forming in his throat, a lump of pain and misery and despair. He was not failing in his destiny by being with Mordred. No! He had failed it years ago! Just by letting the insect live! The image of Mordred's sweet, smiling face swam before his eyes, and Merlin wanted to howl for how innocent he looked. How could someone who caused so much pain and destruction be so happy?

"He knew nothing," Freya snapped, and Merlin looked up at her, surprised. "He thought you destiny with Arthur was the only one you had. Assuredly it was the only one he could see. It was the first real choice of your life, you first possible destiny. He thought that meant it was the destiny."

"You mean . . . you mean there's more?" Merlin gasped. His heart suddenly felt empty, hollow, but in a good way, like an empty bowl or cup waiting to be filled.

"There's more than just Arthur?"

"The destiny that you now inhabit was made impossible long ago," Freya breathed, quiet, like a secret, like the words were a stolen kiss. "Soon, though, destiny will settle into a new shape. You have not wasted so much of your time as you thought. Your next choice approaches."

"What is it?" Merlin asked. "What will the choice be? What should I do?"

Freya smiled. A deep, radiant smile, and Merlin's heart ached.

"Follow your heart."

"My heart once belonged to you," Merlin reminded her. He dipped his fingers in the water where her forehead was reflected, wanting to brush a lock of her dark hair out of her face.

Freya shook her head, as though trying to dislodge his touch. "And now I give it freely back, so that it may find a better home in warmer hands."

He had loved Freya, Melrin realized as he walked back to the castle. He had loved her dearly, the fierce, protective love of one who is young and has felt much pain, and wishes to shield someone else as they could not be shielded. Freya was his first love, she'd taught him how to love. How to love another person so much you would give up everything for them. Suddenly he was deliriously happy that she had loved him, that he had loved her, and now having paid their debts to each other and that love they could both go home.

Home.

There were only a few hours before dawn when Merlin slunk back into the citadel, and suddenly he was bone tired, wanting nothing more than to sink back into his bed until sunrise. He was almost at the corridor which ended in the doorway to the physician's quarters when -

"Mordred!" Merlin cried as he very nearly tripped over the knight in question, who had been sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, barefoot and dressed in a sleep tunic and trousers.

"Merlin!" yelped the clearly groggy Mordred, scrambling to his feet.

"What on Earth are you doing?" Merlin demanded, shock taking over for a moment as he took in the freshly-woken druid swaying unsteadily as he tried to face Merlin upright.

"I'm sorry!" Mordred practically shouted, forcing Merlin to clap a hand over his mouth to stop him waking the whole castle.

"I'm sorry," Mordred repeated in a whisper once Merlin let him go.

"For what?" Merlin hissed, somewhere between very confused and simply annoyed.

"For whatever it is I did to make you leave before dawn!" Mordred whined, clutching at Merlin's tunic as though he were afraid Merlin might escape. He was obviously a bit addled with exhaustion, and Merlin fought the urge to giggle as Mordred clung to him, seeming very close to tears as he continued.

"Is this about me wanting you to t-take me? I won't ask again, I swear, I'll put it from my mind and never think of it! I just wanted to feel you, and you gave me that, and it was so good, and - and -"

"Mordred!" Merlin laughed, unable to help himself. Mordred stopped his rambling and blinked several times, as though trying to clear a fog from his vision. He looked so ridiculous, sleep-starved and watery-eyed and confused as a newborn puppy trying to find it's way through a stone labyrinth. He hicupped gently, seeming very surprised by the noise, and Merlin had absolutely no choice but to lean in and kiss him. Mordred stilled immediately, pressing his whole body as close to Merlin as he could get as he accepted the kiss like absolution.

Suddenly Merlin wanted very badly to do more than kiss. He backed Mordred up against the wall none too gently, pressing harder, closer, deeper. Mordred mewled as the older wizard abandoned his mouth to mouth hungrily at his throat, laving the salty skin and grazing with just a hint of teeth, as though he wanted to bite down, leave his mark. Actually the thought wasn't so far from his mind, the idea of a red, ridged circle of a bite mark marring the knight's perfect skin. He suddenly wondered how Mordred would react to Merlin's teeth on his neck, on his nipples, on the soft flesh inside his thigh.

It seemed that Mordred enjoyed the thought almost as much as Merlin did, perhaps more, if the way he were bucking his hips and fisting his hands in Merlin's tunic was any indication. He seized both of Mordred's wrists and pried them off his shirt, pressing them into the wall above their heads and pinning them there with one hand. Mordred moaned, high and helpless and desperately beautiful.

"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" Merlin realized, grinding their hips together.

"Yes," Mordred whispered, eyes screwed shut, voice shaking.

"You'd do anything," Merlin continued, "anything to please me. Even let me put my mouth here," he ghosted his lips high on Mordred's throat, nearly his jaw, "and bite. You'd take the pain, take a big red mark, answer all the awkward questions in the world tomorrow, if I asked you to?"

"Please," Mordred breathed, trembling with the effort to keep still. "Please do it. Please mark me, Emrys."

"I thought you didn't call me that any more," Merlin asked, not an accusation or a reprimand but not really a question either. His free hand sought the smooth, firm skin beneath Mordred's shirt, caressing only briefly before it doubled back to slide instead into his trousers.

"I-it's how I t-think of you," Mordred stuttered, drunk on pleasure, dizzy from too much stimulation in his exhausted state. "You're E-Emrys, you're a g-god, ah! How c-can I think of y-you by a s-servant's name?"

Merlin rested his forehead on Mordred's shoulder, trying to breath even as he continued to thrust his clothed cock roughly against Mordred's. Filthy fantasies he'd never dared to think of before were running through his head at an alarming speed, and suddenly he wanted to try them all, do everything at once, act out his every wicked wish on Mordred's willing body.

"A god you say?" Merlin asked teasingly against Mordred's neck, hand closing around the younger man's stiff cock. "Then what does that make you, little one, to undo me the way you do?"

Mordred seemed incapable of answering, head thrown back, eyes shut, mouth gaping and gasping out little strangled cries and throat bared beautifully. Merlin mouthed at it again as he continued to stroke Mordred's cock, rutting against his hip, control slipping with every thrust. He bit down, hard, on Mordred's neck just below the jaw, and then Mordred was thrashing and keening as he came in his trousers, hot and wet and messy all over Merlin's hand.

Merlin giggled as Mordred slumped against the wall, spent and close to passing out from weariness. He released his grip on Mordred's wrist, then brought up his sticky, come-covered hand to show the druid.

"Look at the mess you've made," he teased, wondering if perhaps he wasn't a little over-tired himself.

"I'm sorry," Mordred gasped, then glanced down between their bodies. "You didn't, I mean, you haven't . . ." he trailed off, blushing, when Meriln pressed one white-coated finger against his lips to quiet him.

"Don't fall asleep on me yet," Merlin laughed, and his smile was wicked and playful and felt good on his lips. "There are a few hours left before dawn, and I'm not near done with you."


	10. Gwen Chips In

**Author's Note**: Special thanks to lozzabluebell for being the inspiration for the first half of the chapter!

* * *

Weapons training in Camelot was held far too early in the morning for someone who'd come their head off a grand total of seven times before dawn. Mordred had never even known it was possible to come seven times in one night, but somehow he'd managed it.

Or rather, Merlin had managed it with rather a lot of filthy promises and a bit of magic as well, but the point was that weapons training was far too early.

"Late night was it?" Leon asked as they filed out into the dim grey morning. "Little boys shouldn't be up so late. What was a baby like you doing up to such an hour, eh?"

Mordred tried to reply with a witty remark about the state of Leon's clearly uncombed hair, but failed to stifle a yawn and wound up proving Leon's point anyway. Percival laughed and Gwaine ruffled his hair, and Mordred found himself smiling despite the teasing. He'd never in his life thought that one day he might be joking around with the Knights of Camelot, who despite his age seemed to consider him one of their own. He didn't really _feel_ like one of them, his secrets weighing heavy on his heart and mind, but there was something easy and instinctual in this camaraderie. He supposed that it was something beyond lies and loyalty, something deeper and more ingrained; something innately human.

As they lined up like criminals before the gallows waiting for Arthur's hawk-eyes to assess which area of their training was most lacking and therefore necessitated an immediate and furiously-paced drill, Mordred noticed that Merlin was nowhere to be seen. There was a short row of servants waiting to attend the knights, but none of them seemed to be there for the King specifically. Mostly likely Merlin was off cleaning Arthur's room, and probably using his bed for a bit of a lie-in, the lazy sod. This evoked a rather powerful image in Mordred's mind, with two completely different emotional reactions. The first was of Merlin in _Arthur's_ bed, comfortable and at home in a place so indelibly claimed by the King that it physically pained Mordred to think of it; Merlin wrapped up in Arthur's scent, in a state of dormancy among Arthur's belongings, waiting for his _master_ to return. The second was of Merlin _in the King's bed_, drowsy and pliant tangled in silk sheets, eyes heavy-lidded and coy, tunic hiking up jut a little so that a sliver of pale skin peeked out like a flirty invitation to-

When Arthur called for a sparring partner Mordred was too full of energy and desperate for the chance to move to turn him down.

Sword-fighting, Mordred had found, was not actually that difficult. The basics of it were very simple, and one rarely had time for advanced tactical strategy when fighting too many bandits in a half-mad melee. It was the one-on-one combat that provided the greatest challenge, and the greatest advantage in that arena was not so much mastery over the sword, but mastery over one's own body. This was something Mordred had in spades; he was acutely aware of every part of his body and the magic that flowed through it. A well-trained sorcerer could halt his own blood-flow, stop his own heart, so controlling the minuscule movements of each muscle was child's play. What began to complicated matters was the factoring in of an truly expert swordsman such as Arthur.

Also the fact that there was something decidedly off about Mordred's magic today.

He couldn't put his finger on what it was. It was very strange, like noticing a tear in a favorite piece of clothing by feeling it let in a frigid wind. There was nothing _wrong_ with his magic. It just felt somehow . . . different. Not less, but somehow more. Admittedly his control, the carefully constructed borders between his magic and the world outside his body, had been put through it's paces more than once recently, but that couldn't account for the strange sense of _fullness_ he felt. Particularly when he'd thought of Merlin.

Oh.

_Oh._

Arthur jabbed forward viciously and Mordred was forced to swallow his panic and dodge. Arthur grit his teeth as though fighting a growl and forced Mordred back several steps with a number of shallow, glancing blows in quick succession. He seemed to be angry about something, though what he might have done to offend the King Mordred couldn't imagine. This wasn't good, he couldn't handle being used as a vent for Arthur's personal frustration when he had Merlin's magic inside him.

Oh gods, _Merlin's magic was inside him_.

The thought alone made him dizzy, which was dangerous in his current position. He couldn't afford to be distracted when Arthur was taking ruthless swipes at his jugular, but now that he knew what it was he could feel it, latched onto the core of his magic somewhere in his chest. It warmed him from the inside, like a hot meal settling in his stomach or the anticipation of a lover's kiss.

Also, the stuff seemed to have a mind of its own.

No sooner had he realized it was there than it began to throb, pulsing with heat, radiating a strange and overwhelming magic throughout his body. It wriggled and tickled and sparked along his skin, and he spared a thought from trying to keep his balance to marvel that no one was stopping the fight with the loud observation that he was _glowing._

Gods if this was Merlin's idea of a joke Mordred was going to _kill_ him.

Or possibly use the same spell with considerably more force behind it once he and Merlin were behind closed doors.

He was intensely thankful that chainmail revealed nothing, so no one could see the profound effect the magic was having on him. It wasn't a spell, he was sure of it, just residual magic from the previous night, like a stain on his soul, but thinking about how it had got there only added fuel to the fire. Arthur seemed to be getting more and more frustrated, and Mordred couldn't tell why. He knew that it couldn't be because Mordred was winning, as his inability to cope with his current situation was showing in his control, even if the source of his distraction was not. As the fight grew more and more intense so did the magic, filling him in the most delicious way and sending his own magic into a frenzy. He fought to control his breathing, to keep the darkness confined to the edges of his vision, but at last Arthur gave an almighty roar and brought his sword crashing down onto Mordred's, forcing the younger knight to his feet and simultaneously causing a overwhelming surge of magic caused him to topple over the edge.

"_Merlin_," he whispered as his vision whited out for a moment and he came, on his knees before the King of Camelot and all his Noble Knights.

Eight times in a twenty-four hour period. It had to be some kind of record.

He looked up as soon as he'd caught his breath, dazed and a little embarrassed but ultimately pleased with himself for not sending out a shower of gold sparks to announce his orgasm. None of the his fellows seemed to have noticed anything amiss, indeed none of them were looking at him at all. Their attention was focused entirely upon Arthur.

Arthur, who was glaring down at Mordred with murder in his eyes.

"My Lord?" Mordred asked tentatively, not daring to get to his feet just yet.

Arthur closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose and swallowing hard, obviously trying to master himself.

"You are obviously distracted," Arthur pronounced, loud enough for the others to hear. "You haven't been sleeping much have you?"

"No, my Lord," Mordred replied, and it was true. He just didn't have to mention that his lack of sleep was due to engaging in other activities.

Arthur made a jerky gesture toward the castle. "Get some rest," he bit out. "Can't have you collapsing from exhaustion, now can we?"

Mordred nodded obediently and stood, forcing his still wobbly legs to carry him toward the castle. To say he was confused would have been an understatement. Why had Arthur seemed so upset? Didn't the King already know of his relationship with Merlin? The thought that Arthur might take issue with the idea of Merlin and Mordred sharing a bed filled his heart with a mix of savage pride and indignation. What right did Arthur have to dictate who Merlin gave his body to? Hadn't he helped to engineer this? Given his _blessing?_

Mordred shook his head to clear it. Best to let the King work out his own jealous frustrations. Right now all Mordred wanted to do was find Merlin and curl sleepily up in his arms. Perhaps he could go to Gaius and request Merlin to help his with a headache?

Mordred smirked and change direction, heading instead for the physician's quarters.

On a balcony overlooking the training field, Merlin was watching Arthur and his knights. He had seen Mordred and Arthur fight, though he could only discern that it had been done with a bit more passion on Arthur's part than was strictly necessary. Then Mordred had been dismissed. Merlin was dimly aware that his knight (ye Gods, _his_ knight) would probably be coming to find him soon, but he couldn't bring himself to abandon his reverie just yet. He had been thinking about Mordred and Arthur, and the difference between them, something he'd been doing a lot these days. It seemed that every time he had pinned down the fundamental divide between them some new scrap of information presented itself from his memory, turning his mind into a jumbled mess again.

"Copper for your thoughts?" said a voice to his left, drawing his attention away from the knights' training.

Gwen was standing off to his right, leaning on a nearby pillar and regarding him carefully with an air of knowing fondness.

Merlin snorted. "You'd waste your money," he answered, "my thoughts are only of your husband, and those thought you and I share."

"Though not all of them I hope," Gwen laughed, and Merlin laughed as well. It felt good to laugh with Gwen once more. They had scarcely had time for it since she had become Queen.

"And," Gwen continued, a twinkling of mischief in her voice, "I hope that not all your thoughts are for my husband, otherwise we shall have a very disappointed knight on our hands, and I fear his moping shall bring down the atmosphere of the entire castle."

"I spare … a moment or two, to think of someone other than Arthur," Merlin replied coyly, making Gwen laugh again.

"You spare more than a moment," she protested playfully. "Indeed, you spare a whole evening, and well into the night and wee small hours of the morning!"

Both of them laughed at her brash words, pressing their hands to their mouths as though afraid of being caught. Gwen was so beautiful when she laughed, Merlin realized. He knew this, of course, he had seen it when he'd first met Gwen, upon his first arrival in Camelot. For so long he had seen her as the Queen she would one day be or the Monarch she had become. Suddenly he remembered her as she had been, a beautiful, kind, knowing maidservant, long before she had become Queen. Long before she had become Arthur's.

"I wish things could be as they were before," he mused aloud.

Gwen's smile did not fade, but rather changed slightly, allowing the knowing look to creep back into her eyes.

"The past is always a simpler time," she advised. "We must honor it in memory, but never stop looking forward. We must remember our responsibility, to the present and the future."

"Yes," Merlin agreed dazedly, suddenly feeling the weight of his thoughts fall back upon him. "Responsibility."

"Not just responsibility though," Gwen added hastily, drawing Merlin's attention back to her. "The present, and the future, often hold many things the past did not. Many comforts, many dreams. Many . . . _pleasures."_

"Yes," Merlin allowed himself a sly smile. "Indeed my Queen, the future holds many _pleasures_ for us both, I think."

Gwen's smile slipped, and Merlin's frowned. "What is it?" he asked, trying not to be alarmed. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she insisted, forcing her smile back into place, but it was not quite as convincing as before.

"You can tell me," Merlin assured her, "I'm your friend, remember?"

"I … I remember," Gwen said hesitantly, and Merlin stared at her, confused. Gwen looked down at her hands a moment, then back at him with new determination.

"I, too, have been enjoying fond memories of the past," she confided. "People once known, battles once fought, decisions once made."

She trailed off, looking out over the balcony, not down at the field but rather at the unending blue of the sky.

"Loves once lost."

Merlin's eyes widened as realization struck like a knife through the heart, but even as he opened his mouth to speak she was holding up a hand to silence him.

"I made my choice," she said firmly. "I am a wife and Queen. I have people to look after, and I am content."

_"Content_ is not a word to describe epic forbidden romance," Merlin protested. "You shouldn't settle for _content."_

"Then you shouldn't either," Gwen countered. She stepped forward, until she could rest her hand over Merlin's heart.

"Do not settle for pining and servitude, Merlin," she whispered. "You and I both know that you are a great man, whatever Arthur may think."

Her eyes searched his face for some hint of understanding. "You deserve a great love."

Suddenly there was the pounding of feet in the nearby corridor, and no sooner had Gwen and Merlin put some distance between them than Mordred came hurtling around the corner. He paused at the sight of the Queen, giving a shallow bow respectfully, then turned his attention to Merlin.

"I have a headache, physician's apprentice," he whined playfully. "Will you come to my chambers and help me soothe it?"

Merlin glanced at Gwen, and she smiled, a bright, beaming smile that reached her eyes. **_Go,_** she mouthed, and Merlin nodded gratefully.

"Why yes, Sir Knight," Merlin replied coyly, skirting Gwen to step shamelessly into Mordred's arms, "I would be ever so _pleased_ to assist you. It would be my _pleasure."_

And with that the two men made, laughing, for Mordred's chambers, leaving the Queen smiling behind them.


	11. An Unexpected Argument Occurs

**Author's Note: **Gosh it's been a fuck-long time hasn't it? The finale emotionally scarred me, and I didn't even watch it! Just looked at a bunch of gifs and had it summarized for me. Anyway after that justifiable reason to commit suicide (or homicide) I was kind of too disgusted with the show as a whole and the incredibly way they abused and cheated their fans, so I gave up on both this and another Merlin fanfiction I was planning to write. I'm more into Homestuck now, and while there's no guarantee that won't end even worse I can at least be sure that Hussie will make it funny, if nothing else. I have an AO3 account now, username is the same as it is here, and as soon as I'm done with this story it's going up there. One more chapter will follow this one, but I'm not making promises as to when, since I have another project I'm planning to start.

**Chapter 11: An Unexpected Argument Occurs**

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mordred realized that they couldn't make a habit of this. It was a shame too, but it was unbecoming of a Knight of Camelot to spend all day in bed, and it could very well lose a servant his job. Not that Merlin's work wasn't being done; assuredly Arthur's armor had been cleaned, his clothes had been mended, and his sword being sharpened. It just so happened that Merlin wasn't actually the one doing it.

Or that's how he put it.

"It is your work you know," Mordred informed him as they lay on the bed watching the whetstone scrape down the blade of Arthur's sword, hovering at about waist height above the stone floor. "I couldn't make this spell work without continuous concentration, so it's not like you left your work to someone else. Only you could do this."

"Somehow I doubt Arthur would see it that way," Merlin laughed, then laughed harder at Mordred's sour look.

"What?" he demanded, still chuckling, "I only mean to say that he finds fault in everything I do, and if he can't find fault he makes it up just to watch me scamper about."

"You do more than most of the servants around here," Mordred grumbled, tightening his grip on Merlin's waist and leaning in to kiss his neck gently.

"Saving the King from tripping over his stupid feet and falling on his fat royal arse doesn't count," Merlin retorted, and though his tone was light and humorous Mordred still detected a note of bitterness.

It didn't stop him from stealing a cheap thrill at Merlin calling Arthur fat.

"How do you make it keep working by itself?" Mordred asked, watching as the stone slid over the blade in smooth, even strokes.

Merlin shrugged. "It just does. I say the spell and then they just sort of take on a life of their own. Isn't that how it's supposed to work?"

"But you didn't use a spell," Mordred reminded him, frowning. "You just waved your hand at them without using an incantation."

"Oh," said Merlin, blinking in surprise, "I guess I've just got so used to doing that one while I read I can just sort of throw it about without even thinking by now."

"You do know that only an Archmage with decades of study behind them in supposed to be able to do that," Mordred asked, trying to sound conversational and not like a giddy admirer. "To give an enchantment independence of your conscious will without placing it permanently upon an object is highly advanced magic Merlin."

Merlin blushed. "It's still tied to my will. Say the door were to open, and Gaius, or several drunken knights, or King Uther risen from the dead, were to come through it. Both the sword and the stone would fall immediately and we'd just have to explain why we were chucking things out of bed onto the floor. Stop that!" he squeaked, giggling, when Mordred began to kiss behind his ear. "It's not that impressive!"

"It is though," Mordred insisted earnestly, nuzzling Merlin's hairline. "I couldn't do what you've done."

"You could work this spell if you tried," Merlin said quietly, shrinking back.

He was uncomfortable with the praise, Mordred had discovered. He was so keenly conscious of his magic, yet so ignorant of his own skill. It was one of the many things about him, part that tragic void in his life, that made Mordred ache to fill it.

"You have an incredible talent, Merlin," Mordred whispered against his ear. Merlin shivered, eyes closed, and Mordred's hand came to cup his chin, forcing the older man to look at him.

"It's such a shame that you weren't allowed to pursue it as you should have been. Such a waste."

Merlin looked down at the sheet, face dark. "I don't consider it a waste, Mordred. I can't. My magic belongs to my destiny."

Mordred shook his head.

"The power is yours," he pressed, firm but quiet, "what you choose to do with it."

Reaching across their bodies, his hands sought Merlin's. For a moment they hovered next to each other, palms aimed together and fingers almost entwined, but hesitating.

"The choices you've had to make, Merlin," Mordred continued. "I don't think I could have done half of what you have."

Slowly, gently, as though drawn by some old magic, their hands pressed together. Mordred grasped Merlin's in gentle fingers, and after a few moments Merlin's fingers wound around his. Mordred let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I never thought I could have this," Merlin admitted, voice soft, like a prayer.

"You can," Mordred breathed, nuzzling Merlin's cheek, his neck, "you can have everything. You deserve everything that love can give you."

"Do you love me?" Merlin asked. His voice sounded so small, so unsure, and Mordred's heart broke for him.

"Do you have to ask?" he croaked.

"Please answer it," Merlin whispered, turning his head and nuzzling into Mordred's shoulder. "I . . . I want to hear you say it."

"I love you," said Mordred, softly, and felt Merlin shiver and sigh in response.

"I love you, Merlin," he repeated, stronger this time, louder. "I love you more than anything."

Merlin looked up at him, his eyes full of a timid, fragile hope. "Mordred . . . I-"

"Merlin!" called a voice from the corridor, making them both jump.

Immediately the soft warmth at Mordred's side vanished as Merlin leaped out of bed, clothes flying into his grasp from where they'd landed on the floor. His shirt slithered over his head on it's own and he hopped, stumbling, into his trousers, then grabbed the sword and whetstone out of the air and bounded back over to the bed, sitting himself at the foot with his legs dangling over the far side just as the door opened.

"Oh, there you are Merlin," said Arthur, stepping inside. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing in here?"

Merlin's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, eyes wide as he tried to think of an explanation. He glanced fearfully at Mordred.

"I was afflicted with a headache, my Lord," Mordred lied easily, adjusting the bedclothes so that it looked like he was only naked from the waist down. "Merlin so kindly came to assist me, and when I monopolized his time with conversation he insisted on bringing some of his chores here in order to entertain me while he worked."

Merlin grinned in relief, holding up the sword and whetstone triumphantly.

Arthur, however, eyed them both in apparent confusion. "I've never known Merlin to be much of a conversationalist," he remarked skeptically. "What could the two of you possibly have to talk about?"

Mordred was tempted to say 'sorcery.' He was tempted to throw their bond in Arthur's face, tell him exactly how powerful Merlin was, tell him everything he and Merlin had been forced to hide. But Merlin's face was stricken with panic at the fire in Mordred's eyes, and he held his tongue.

"Nothing, my Lord," he bit out. "Palace gossip. The beauty of the forest. Idle dreams."

"Hm," Arthur replied, clearly uninterested, then beckoned shortly to his servant. "Merlin."

Obediently Merlin stood, feet slapping on the stone floor.

"Why aren't you wearing your boots?" Arthur demanded.

"Not to mess up the sheets," Merlin explained, rescuing himself this time.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, as though wondering whether to believe him or not, but waited none the less for Merlin to tug on his socks and boots before leading the way back out into the corridor.

They walked in silence for some time. Merlin's heart was beating heavy against his ribs and his whole body was tense, waiting for something to happen. Arthur was never this quiet. Something was wrong, he could feel it.

"Is there something I can do for you, Sire?" Merlin asked as Arthur turned off the main corridor onto a side passage.

"Indeed," said the King evenly, then seized Merlin by the arm, pushed him up against the wall, and kissed him.

For a moment Merlin was too stunned to react. He kept his lips tightly sealed against Arthur's probing tongue, back stiff against the wall and arm tense in Arthur's bruising grip. Then, with an effort, he turned his head away and wrenched himself out of Arthur's hold.

Arthur stared blankly at Merlin's incredulous gaze. He seemed to be considering Merlin, wondering what to do with him, and after a long enough pause that Merlin's lip was beginning to tremble with nerves and confusion, he smiled. It was a deliberately benevolent kind of smile, almost patronizing, and it made Merlin uneasy.

"What's the matter, Merlin?" he said gently, reaching for him again. Merlin backed up a step, quick and jittery, and Arthur stopped.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," Arthur assured him, "no one's going to see us."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Merlin hissed, leaning to one side to look behind the King. "What do you think you're doing?!"

Arthur's face darkened.

"Sire," Merlin added hurriedly, casting his gaze to the floor.

Arthur's condescending smile returned, and his eyes softened to that strange benevolence that made Merlin's skin crawl. When he spoke again, his voice had become a soothing purr.

"Merlin," he said quietly, "even you must understand that you are . . . pretty, for a man."

Merlin swallowed. "I hadn't thought much on the subject, sire."

"I assure you, you are," Arthur pressed. He took another step forward slowly. "You have such delicate features Merlin. They are, distracting."

He reached out a hand and ran his fingers over Merlin's lips, making the servant's stomach churn.

"Please sire," Merlin piped up, voice higher than he'd intended, "I don't think this is entirely appropriate."

"It isn't," Arthur agreed, leaning, eyes fixed on Merlin's lips, "not in the slightest."

Quick as a flash, Merlin ducked under Arthur's arm and darted behind him, forcing the King to turn.

Merlin's back was to the main corridor now, and he felt his heart unclench a bit at knowing he had somewhere to run.

Arthur's face, however, hardened. "You are loyal to your King, are you not Merlin?"

"I am loyal to Camelot," Merlin snapped, "to her King _and_ her Queen!"

"You are loyal to me," Arthur insisted, voice growing colder.

"Arthur," Merlin pleaded, "Arthur I've been with you through so much."

Arthur stepped forward, eyes full of intent, and Merlin began to babble.

"I was with you through the Dorocha, and the army of the dead, and that creature in the wells!" he protested, as Arthur backed him into the open corridor. "I was there through all those trials after you shot that unicorn, which I warned you not to do dollop-head. I rode out with you to face the Dragon, remember the Dragon, Arthur?"

"I remember the Dragon," Arthur replied, one hand outstretched, and Merlin suddenly hit the far wall.

Arthur cupped his chin, thumb brushing over Merlin's cheek. "After all that, is it so far-fetched a thought that I have come to hold you in some regard?"

"But you don't!" Merlin exploded, pushing Arthur's hand away. "I've given you so much Arthur! I drank poison for you! I was your go-between with your lover! Think what you're asking of me!"

"You love me," Arthur declared, and Merlin froze.

He looked at Arthur's eyes, at the familiar blue, then forced his gaze to widen. He took in the lines on Arthur's face, creased with anger. He took in the set of his jaw, the hard thin line of his mouth, the way his eyebrows knit together. He looked so hardened, so demanding.

"Is it such a stretch of the imagination to think that I have come to love you?" Arthur asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And suddenly it was.

"Yes," said Merlin slowly, "yes it is a stretch. In fact it's an impossibility. This . . . Arthur, this so-called love isn't something you want to _give_ me. It's one more thing you want _from_ me."

"Isn't that how love works?" Arthur asked, blinking in confusion. "I love you, and crave your love in return?"

"No!" Merlin said, sharp and clear, and Arthur actually pulled back in surprise. "Loving me, it's something you've done in your head. You've tied yourself in knots thinking how much you want me, but that, Arthur, that's not love! And asking me to kiss you, asking me for my body, for my heart, it's just wanting me to give you something when you've given me nothing!"

"Damn it Merlin!" Arthur snapped, "I'm trying to make a declaration of affection and you're saying I haven't given you enough?"

"Yes!" Merlin spat, "and to be honest, there's nothing I want from you."

"But . . but, I love you!" Arthur argued, and in that moment Merlin realized that it was an argument. It was a protest against Merlin's will, a rejection of what he wanted.

Suddenly everything made sense. He had come to Camelot hoping to find something for himself, something _of_ himself. He'd thought that he'd found it, believed truly that he'd found his destiny. But he hadn't. The magic, which had always been a part of him, he no longer thought of as his own. He had lost the joy he had once taken in it, lost the will to use it for himself. As a child he had always thought that if he had nothing else he had his magic, and that would get him through, but as a man that sense of freedom had waned until his home had become a prison, the magic no longer an escape. Arthur wasn't good for him, this _life_ wasn't good for him; he hadn't found what he'd been looking for in Camelot, and he had the choice to leave.

He'd always had the choice, but he'd been too blinded by the relief at finding a purpose to realize that his purpose had robbed him of the reasons he'd wanted to find it.

"Maybe," said Merlin, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from somewhere in his chest, "but I don't love you."

Merlin he turned, intent on walking away.

"No!" Arthur hissed, seizing Merlin's hand and pulling the other man up against his chest. His other hand gripped Merlin's hair, forcing his head back to receive Arthur's kiss.

When Merlin wrenched away, this time he slapped Arthur hard across the face.

"Never touch me again," Merlin began, intent on telling Arthur exactly what he was thinking, but as soon as he paused for breath he heard it.

Footfalls. The sound of boots on the stone floor.

The sound of someone running away.

Merlin turned to look behind himself, a chill of horror spreading through his heart.

"Mordred!"


End file.
